
Class EB_^_91A 
Book -54- 



CopyiigM]^ 



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COErtaGHT DEPOSJT, 



/ 







WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 



^^^^ 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 



AN INTRODUCTION TO THE 
GREAT PLAYS 



L. A. SHERMAN 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE 
UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA 



/ 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 
1902 

Aii rights reserved 



/ 






THE LIBBAf?Y OF 

GONG«ESS. 
Two Copies Heceiveo 

DEC. 21 1901 

O >F" filOHT ENTBV 

CLASS Ct KXc. MO. 
COPY J. 



Copyright, 1901, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



J. S. Cushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 



Co 
GEORGE EDWIN MacLEAN 



CONTENTS 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 



A Shakespeare paradox 
Shakespeare's public 
Shakespeare as a novelist . 
Difficulties of reading this author 
Proper materials for literary 
treatment ..... 
What all men seek 



What it is to be educated . 
What Shakespeare can supply to 

men 

This author cannot be imparted 

by abstractions 
Plan of the work .... 



II 

CYMBELINE 



Use of the two Gentlemen . 

Imogen released from prison 

Imogen's repose and fortitude . 

Her keepsake gift 

Her matter-of-fact quality of 
mind 

Why the first scene laid in a gar- 
den ...... 

Cymbeline's fatuous rage . 

Imogen's tastes .... 

Cloten's assault upon Posthumus 

Cloten's imbecility 

Imogen's devotion 

Poslhumus as Philario's guest . 

lachimo's craft .... 

His motive ..... 

Posthumus overmatched . 

The Queen's request for poisons 

Pisanio provided with the drugs 



lachimo's first impressions of 
Imogen 

Her influence upon his language 

His innuendos 

Imogen not jealous 

lachimo's humiliation 

He unsays his slander 

His strategy of the trunk . 

Imogen's power ... 

Cloten belated in dissipation 

Imogen a reader 

Her lack of curiosity . 

lachimo's fear 

Cloten's serenade 

He calls Imogen sister 

Cloten's grievance 

Posthumus unadvised of Imo 
gen's troubles by her 

lachimo infuriates Posthumus 



32 
34 
35 
37 
39 
40 

41 

42 

43 
43 
44 
46 

47 
49 

52 

54 
55 



VUl 



CONTENTS 



Posthumus's resolve to punish 
Imogen .... 

The Queen's policy in Roman 
matters .... 

The need, for plot purposes, of 
a war .... 

Posthumus's demands upon Pi 
sanio .... 

Imogen's response to her hus 
band's summons . 

Posthumus's letter to Imogen 

Belarius and the Princes 

Cymbeline's Latin tastes 

Posthumus's second letter to 
Pisanio .... 

Effect of her husband's order 
upon Imogen . 

Imogen willing to go to Italy 

Cloten inveigled to Milford 

Cloten made to wear Posthu- 
mus's garments 

Imogen bewildered and ex- 
hausted .... 

Imogen found in the cave of 
the mountaineers 

Imogen fascinates her brothers 

lachimo drawn into the British 
war 

Imogen left in the cave by the 
hunters .... 

Cloten arrived in Wales 

Cloten's death 

Imogen brought out as dead by 
Arviragus 

Arviragus and Guiderius in con 
trast 

Belarius kept from the burial 
situation .... 



82 



83 



The burial song recited by the 

brothers 85 

Cloten's body laid by Imogen . 86 
Imogen recovered from the 

eftects of the drug . . .86 
Imogen swoons on Cloten's 

body 87 

Imogen found by Lucius . 87 

Imogen made willing by the 
supposed mutilation of her 
husban d's body to leave Britain 89 
The use of her insult to Cloten . 90 
Cymbeline's lethargy lifted . 90 

The forces of Cymbeline in 

Wales 92 

Posthumus keeps the bloody 

handkerchief . . . .92 
lachimo's conscience aroused . 93 
Cymbeline rescued by Posthu- 
mus's aid 94 

95 



96 



99 
100 



Posthumus seeks death 

Cornelius and court ladies in 
Wales 

Lucius bespeaks his life from 
Imogen 

Imogen recognises her mother's 
ring 

lachimo's confession . 

The agony of Posthumus . 

Imogen's sorrow for the Queen's 
death 102 

Guiderius proved Imogen's 
brother 102 

lachimo pardoned by Posthu- 
mus 103 

The character of Imogen . . 105 

Shakespeare a revealer and in- 
terpreter of life • . . 109 



III 



THE winter's tale 



The Winter's Tale opened like 

Cymbeline . . . .111 
Leontes and Polyxenes at odds . 112 
Hermione humours her husband 113 
Mamillius used against his 

mother 

Ca-millo forced into a plot against 
Polyxenes . . . .117 



"5 



Polyxenes apprised of the plot . 
Mamillius used in his mother's 

behalf 

Hermione requests from her son 

a story 

Leontes and his lords enter the 

Queen's apartments 
Hermione's repose 



118 
118 



119 



120 
122 



CONTENTS 



IX 



Hermione ordered to prison . 122 
The appeal to the oracle at 

Delphi 123 

Greene's novel of Dorastus and 

Faivnia 124 

Paulina as Hermione's foil . 124 
Paulina brings the babe to the 

King ..... 126 

Paulina defies the guard . . 127 

The need of an Antigonus . 128 
Cleomenes and Dion hastening 

for the Queen's sake . . 129 

Hermione brought to the sessions 129 

Her absolute, unshrinking faith 130 

The King put to confusion . 131 

The response of the oracle . 132 

Leontes impugns the decision . 132 

Report of Mamillius's death . 132 



Hermione's swoon . . . 133 
Paulina's invective against the 

King . . . . .133 
Hermione and Imogen con- 
trasted 135 

The Globe and Blackfriars as 

centres of influence . . 136 
The limitations of the plot in The 
Winter s Tale .... 139 
The Wititer's Tale a comedy . 141 
Perdita shown in false positions 142 
Florizel characterised . . 143 
Polyxenes and Camillo try Per- 
dita 144 

Perdita's welcome to her friends 145 
The use of Polyxenes's anger . 146 
Perdita's self-possession . . 147 
Perdita in Paulina's chapel . 148 



IV 



ROMEO AND JULIET 



The plot borrowed from Brooke 149 
Purpose of the street fray . . 150 
Romeo in love with his ideals . 151 
Juliet's mother .... 152 
The art of portraying character 153 
Juliet's nurse .... 153 
Paris recommended to Juliet . 155 
Mercutio a nearer friend to 

Romeo than Benvolio . . 156 
The meeting of Romeo and Ju- 
liet 156 

Tybalt's interference . . . 157 

(uliet of Gothic temperament . 160 
Jse of the chorus . . . 160 
Rosaline a symbol of his ideal to 

Romeo 162 

The change in Romeo after the 

sight of Juliet .... 162 
Mercutio not lofty minded . 164 



Juliet gives up her hate of the 

Montagues .... 165 
Romeo's mind and Juliet's in 

contrast 167 

Juliet plans for both . . . 168 
Shakespeare's alleviation of the 

haste 170 

The climax of the balcony scene 173 
The intuition of Shakespeare's 

women 174 

The Romeo and yuliet only 

another Cymbeline . . . 175 
The basis of this play . . . 176 
Mercutio's gifts made over to 

Romeo 177 

The deeper meaning of the play 178 
The art of the play not inferior to 

the art of Cymbeline and The 
Winters Tale , . . .181 



THE DRAMATIC ART OF MACBETH 



The" maximum consummation" I The first condition of tragedy . 184 

in Shakespeare's dramas . 184 | Duncan an unkingly figure . 185 



CONTENTS 



Use of the battle in Lochaber 

The Witches' Masters 

The opening scene 

The Witches differentiated 

Use of the Sergeant . 

Malcolm, like the King, unmar 

tial 

The composite battle . 

Macdonwald bewitched 

Sweno also handicapped by the 

demons . . . . 
' Macbeth as the saviour of Scot 

land 

The new mischief of the Witches 
Macbeth's satisfaction over the 

battle .... 
The prophecy touching his future 
The Minor Obstacle . 
The Major Obstacle . 
Resolution of the Minor 
Lady Macbeth as the new factoi 

in the plan 
Her worship of her husband 
Banquo as Duncan's chamber 

Iain 

The first crisis of the play . 
The close of the First Act ir 

Shakespeare ... 
Banquo's defection from the 

King .... 

The effect of his resolve upon 

Macbeth .... 
The Major Obstacle removed 
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth': 

first blunders . 
Macbeth's fatal error . 
Lady'Macbeth's swoon 
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth 

appear crowned but once 



187 
187 
188 
189 

190 
191 
191 

193 

193 
195 

196 
197 
197 
198 
199 

200 
202 

203 
204 

205 

206 

206 
208 

209 
210 
211 



PAGE 

Macbeth's bate of Banquo . .213 
The Third Murderer . . . 214 
Banquo's ghost an apparition 

raised by the Witches . . 215 
The climax of the banquet scene 216 
The subjective climax of the play 217 
Macbeth degraded by applying 

to the Witches . . . 218 

The pretended ghost of Banquo 

again shown .... 219 
The butchery of Lady Macduff 

and her children . . . 219 
Malcolm subordinates Macduff. 221 
Duncan of the Edward Con- 
fessor type of king . . . 222 
Malcolm amended martially . 222 
The Fourth Act in Shakespeare 

a pieparing time . . . 223 
The climax in the sleep-walking 

scene 224 

Macbeth and Cymbeline com- 
pared 225 

Cymbeline, a tragedy . . . 227 
The obstacles in Romeo and 

Jtdiet 229 

The subjective climax in these 

plays 230 

Novels constructed on Shake- 
speare's plan .... 230 
Richard Carvel .... 231 
Qi4etttin Diirzvard . . .231 
Evan Harrington . . . 232 
Ultimate meaning of the novels . 233 
Tennyson's The Princess . . 234 
The Short Story .... 235 

Quo Vadis 235 

Cyrano de Bergerac . . . 235 



VI 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 



The birth of Shakespeare , . 236 
First mention of the poet in 

formal Latin .... 236 
Shakespeare's mother . . 237 

Thomas Cromwell's injunction 

to the clergy .... 237 



Shakespeare's father . . . 238 
The poet's birthplace . . . 239 
Shakespeare's country . . 240 
The Free Grammar School of 

Stratford 242 

Shakespeare's teachers . . 243 



CONTENTS 



XI 



Shakespeare's diction . . . 243 
John Shakespeare's waning for- 
tunes 244 

Shakespeare's marriage . . 245 
A possible precontract of mar- 
riage 247 

The deer-stealing episode . . 249 
Shakespeare in London . . 250 
The attack of Greene. . . 251 
Chettle's apology . . . 253 

Shakespeare as an actor . . 255 
Venus and Adonis . . . 257 

Lucre ce 258 

Titus Andronicus . . . 259 
The Comedy of Errors . , 260 
Romeo and yuliet . . . 260 
Grant of coat armour . . 261 

Purchase of New Place . . 261 
Shakespeare's income . . 263 

Friendship of the poet with Ben 

Jonson 263 

The Palladis Tamia , . . 265 
The Globe Theatre . . . 267 
The Merry Wives . . . 268 
Twelfth Night . . . .268 
The Returne from Pernassus . 269 



Hamlet 

The period of Shakespeare's 
maturity 

The Stratford tithes . 

Marriage of Susanna Shake- 
speare 

The Sonnets . . . . 

The dark lady . . , . 

Shakespeare's optimism 

The Biackfriars Theatre 

Cyynbeline . . . . . 

The H'inter's Tale 

Shakespeare's London house , 

Tlie Globe Theatre burned 

Shakespeare's will 

Death of the poet 

Inscription on his tomb 

The Stratford bust 

The Droeshout portrait 

The saneness of Shakespeare's 
mind 

The Bacon question . 

Shakespeare's learning 

The burden of proof in the 
Shakespeare-Bacon contro- 
versy 



PAGE 

269 



269 
270 

270 
270 
272 

273 
274 
274 
274 
274 
275 
275 
275 
277 
277 
279 

280 
282 
283 



284 



VII 



THE GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 



Strictures of Ben Jonson . 
Shakespeare and the classicists . 
Shakespeare's borrowed plots . 
Divisions of the plays 
Two principal periods of pro- 
duction 
The pessimistic plays , 
Hamlet 
King Lear . 
Julius CcBsar 



285 

286 
286 


Othello .... 
Antony and Cleopatra . 
Coriolanus .... 


• 313 

• 31S 
. 318 


287 


Much Ado .... 
Midsummer Night's Dream. 


• 320 
. 321 


288 
289 
290 

303 


Taming of the Shrew . 
Twelfth Night . 
As You Like It . . . 
The Merchant of Venice 


• 322 

• 323 

• 325 
. 326 


312 







VIII 

PERSONAL STUDY OF THE PLAYS 



Knowing one play is knowing 

Shakespeare .... 329 
Use of the outlines . . . 330 



The end of Shakespeare study 
The literature of Shakespeare 



330 
331 



xii CONTENTS 

APPENDIX 

OUTLINE QUESTIONS 

I 

PAGE 

The Winter's Tale 335 

II 
Romeo and Juliet 360 

III 
Twelfth Night 388 

INDEX 409 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 
I 

What is Shakespeare ? Why does the world account 
him great, and put him so generally at the head of 
all literary masters ? Most people, at least such as 
have to do with books, at some time or other ask 
themselves these questions, and often fail of per- 
sonal, satisfying conclusions. Men and a Shakespeare 
women of liberal education for the most paradox. 
part understand Shakespeare's secret, having divined 
it in consequence of many years of training. Some 
common folk become his confident disciples without 
such aid. But the great majority of readers seem 
not to know what Shakespeare is like, or how a 
maker of plays should be held superior to authors 
who produce literature in a more popular and availa- 
ble form. 

It has been noted that men will singly and sev- 
erally doubt upon occasion what they collectively 
allow. The supporters of a party some ^j^^ ^^jj^ 
times vote for candidates that they do not not edu- 
individually approve. That people should §^3^5-° 
believe in Shakespeare who are without speare's 
knowledge of his quahty is only in seeming 
paradoxical, and is a thing incident to growing cul- 
ture. We of the English-speaking populations, who 



2 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? 

claim Shakespeare ours, |_have become the largest of 
literary publics. We are reading in the main good 
books, but have not yet come into companionship 
with the best. While we are trying to live up to 
our truest intellectual hght, we are partly conscious 
of standards toward which we are but slowly rising. 
Hence is it that our personal appreciation of Shake- 
speare falls much below our prescriptive judgments 
concerning his place and worth. His works stand 
conspicuously on our hbrary shelves, yet of all books 
are approached perhaps least often. He is praised 
loudly by many of us who have never studied so much 
as a single play, or reached in any manner the least 
experience of his inspiration. We are sure that 
Shakespeare is wonderful, yet we would rather per- 
haps avoid than suffer an actual acquaintance with 
the proofs. This does not mean that we are really 
disingenuous, or dissemblers, but that we have come to 
take Shakespeare for granted, like many other things, 
on the testimony of those whose knowledge is expert. 
What we may call Shakespeare's public is not 
made up of those who read him discern- 
Shake- ^^S^Jf ^nd prize him, and such others as do 
speare does not read, yet praise ; there are other groups 

not call for . . , , 

new pro- and sections of not less mterest and worth 
cesses or ^q culture. Many people are vaguely con- 
scious of great truths in Shakespeare, and 
are almost in sight of what they mean ; they feel the 
influence of a great presence that they cannot find. 
Then there is a large and constantly increasing class 
of readers who have right notions touching fellow- 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? 3 

ship with Shakespeare, and are abundantly fitted to 
compass it, yet believe that they could never, even 
with persistent effort, rise to his thought. They 
assume, of course mistakenly, that they would need 
to learn new processes, or be mentally reenforced in 
some mysterious way, to understand him. On the 
other hand, there are not a few instructed people, 
some of them professors even in our colleges, who 
affirm that there are no marvels in Shakespeare save 
what his admirers read into him, and that his literary 
art is but a myth. What is worse, many of those 
who have been schooled concerning Shakespeare's 
quality declare that they have received no insight, 
and do not believe what they have been taught. 
That the last-named group should be largely re- 
cruited year by year from the graduates of our col- 
leges and schools is not reassuring, and must be due 
to faults of pedagogy. There is not the sHghtest 
question that Shakespeare's following increases year 
by year; the phenomenal sale of his editions, and 
particularly of some recent ones, proves that. There 
is small doubt that all intelligent and educated readers 
will one day know what Shakespeare is, and appre- 
ciate him fully. But we have clearly reached a stage 
where the growth of literary taste and wisdom might 
well advance with considerably accelerated speed. 

Undoubtedly Shakespeare would have much greater 
currency to-day, had his works been novels ; and this 
author, were he living now, would pretty surely writ& 
stories instead of plays. But we should not expect 
Shakespeare to produce fiction of mere incident or 



4 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

adventure. He would certainly make novels more 
Shake- nearly like The Mill on tJie Floss, or Evan 
speare Harrinp;toji, or The Cossacks, or Fathers and 

would to- 

day write Children, than any others that we have ; 
novels. only they would be more profound and pow- 
erful. It would not be possible to appreciate such 
books as he would write without some seriousness of 
purpose and considerable power of literary apprecia- 
tion. There would thus remain the same difificulty that 
we meet to-day in trying to read Shakespeare as he is. 
Those who have the power of literary appreciation, 
which is an accomplishment that can be imparted 
as well as learned, should be able to read plays and 
poetry and fiction with equal facility and success. 
Many readers who have this power with novels find 
themselves reading Shakespeare merely for the story. 
They do not know how to approach a play, and are 
hindered from the vital meanings by the form. In 
order to aid those who would be glad to read Shake- 
speare and like authors more confidently and com- 
pletely, the publishers have asked me to make this 
little book. I have assumed the task reluctantly, 
partly because the attempt is no easy one, and in 
part from fear lest the whole be held a cheapening 
of Shakespeare's work. Of course the great things 
of literature cannot be popularised. They must be 
spiritually discerned, and if not in virtual complete- 
ness, then not at all. The plan here is to reduce 
the difficulties, through making practicable units of 
approach, yet leave the study to be achieved wholly 
by the reader. No one wishing to find Shakespeare, 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 5 

and willing with some patience to make the search, 
should fail of his quest. 

The processes of literary interpretation, as has been 
implied, are not different in kind from such as are 
used by the commonest people every day. r^^^ ^^^^^ 
To interpret a novel is to find the characters, pretationof 
the motives, the human nature in it, just as ^p^^" 
we discover these same things by interpreting the 
faces and speech and actions of the men and women 
that we meet in outside life. It is harder to inter- 
pret the marks of character and passion in a novel 
than in real life, for they are fewer, and far less 
intense and striking. In the text of a play there are 
fewer signs of character and feeling than in a novel. 
To interpret a play we must expand the situations 
and dialogue into such phases and denominations of 
life as the novel uses. There is nothing in the drama, 
or the novel, or other forms of literature, that is not 
or may not be met with in the real experiences of 
living. The helps provided in this volume require 
the student to synthesise the whole, of which the 
given drama furnishes but a part. 

Not all experiences of life are available for litera- 
ture, however veritable and approved. Things that 
happen to everybody are not inspiring, and are not 
generally used in making plays and novels. Once 
when the struggle for life against outside foes was 
fierce, adventures and escapes were of greatest inter- 
est. Now that danger and hardship have been essen- 
tially eliminated, so that even the uniit survive, the 
general energy is no longer absorbed in a struggle for 



6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

mere existence. What mankind is now in search of 
is new and larger Hving, a greater quantum and a 
What all higher quahty of existence. The multipHed 
men seek, serviccs of socicty bring larger comforts, and 
these insure, or should insure, for those who render 
as well as those who enjoy them, an ampler domestic 
and personal living. Moreover, by a marvellous 
system of cooperation, we are putting each other in 
possession of the best that there is in ourselves and 
in humanity at large. In material society there is 
a strict law of meiini et tmim. In the sphere of the 
spiritual there are very different postulates and prin- 
ciples. Under civil order, whatever belongings I 
have cannot become another's unless I resign them, 
or unless they are filched from me. But in the spirit- 
ual commonwealth there are no statutes of exclusion; 
we may covet what gifts and accomplishments we 
will. The worth that is in my neighbour's character 
may become mine, if I hunger and thirst for it, and it 
will remain no less his for enabling the like in me. 
An act of heroism that I would emulate becomes 
potentially my own ; I rise by it to the level of the 
superior mind that conceived and compassed it. I 
care little for mediocre acts and thoughts of people, 
but the select sayings and inspiration, the unique 
goodness and worth of the world, I would have con- 
tinually before me. The treasured form of such 
ideas and sentiments and achievements we call Litera- 
ture. It perpetuates the best that men have found in 
the truest and noblest experiences of living. To be 
prepared to live, one must have been provided with 



WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 7 

the best and truest living attained or attainable hith- 
erto. Literature is an institutional device Tobeed- 
by which society administers to itself its "cated is 
gains and discoveries of finest sentiment nfe o°the ^ 
and sublimest thinking. To be educated is p^^*- 
to be provided for living by acquaintance with the 
best Hf e of the past ; and this is available nowhere 
but in the thoughts and experiences that great men 
have bequeathed to us. It is the right, and should be 
the privilege, of those who come after to be equipped 
with the sum of what life has meant to the best who 
have lived before. 

Shakespeare is useful to the world, and has come 
to be prized by wise men of all lands, because he was 
possessed of a profounder and completer knowledge 
of life than any author of books besides, what 
He can thus supply to us experiences that shake- 

111 , . . T T . speare can 

we should never otherwise attam. He is supply to 
capable of inspiring and enlightening us '"*^"- 
more abundantly than his rivals are, for the reason 
that he seems to have been acquainted with nobleness 
and worth in degree and variety beyond what other 
minds have known. It will not be easy to find Shake- 
speare except by discovering these qualities in his 
work. It will be of small profit to affirm that 
Shakespeare is this or this, that his moral attitude 
must have been such and such, if Shakespeare be 
not himself revealed and discerned, beyond his 
authorship, much as if he were living among us 
to-day. We have perhaps heard famous lecturers 
discourse patiently and eloquently to the effect that 



8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Shakespeare is the greatest genius in all letters, that 
he has more imagination, that he employs more art, 
that he achieves more control over human sympathies 
Shake- than any other sage or poet. But all this 
speare, not h^g not brought US ouc whit nearer acquaint- 

imparted • , i . , , . . , , 

by abstrac- auce With the man, or with his mmd and 
tions. power. We cannot be won to the apprecia- 

tion or discipleship of Shakespeare by abstractions. 
We have not so learned our mothers, or the men and 
women whose lives have made us what we are. 

It is therefore the purpose here to take some play 
or plays, such as our mentors must have had in mind, 
when they tried to administer Shakespeare to us, and 
test their spirit and purport just as if they had been 
written in the shape of novels, and by some modern 
master. We should choose creations that he put his 
heart into, and produced at times when he had least 
reason to exploit his gifts. What he makes the bur- 
den unequivocally of these plays, or any number of 
Plays that them, will presumably be something that he 
Shake- carcs much for, or feels convinced of deeply, 
his heart and will perhaps stand as an expression of 
into. what he would have life be or mean. Among 

such plays would, of course, be Cymbeline, and this it 
is proposed, first of all, to examine with some care. 
Incidentally, as we follow the chief meanings, we 
shall do well to watch for modes and devices by which 
these are severally administered, — that is, for Shake- 
speare's art, if there is any. In general, it will be 
requisite that we read each scene, in advance of treat- 
ment, and keep the open text at hand. 



II 

CYMBELINB 
Act I 

SCENE I 

It will be well to have in mind at the beginning that 
Cyvibeline is a British play, laid in pre-Christian times, 
and that the piece was not composed for the sake 
of King Cymbeline, the title character, but of his 
daughter Imogen. The opening lines are devoted to 
explaining who Imogen is, and making us acquainted 
with the circumstances under which she is to appear. 
In a drama everything that we need to know must be 
communicated to us incidentally, through the talk of 
certain characters, since the author cannot, useofthe 
as in most other kinds of literature, tell us two Gentie- 
anything directly. The device here is to '"^"" 
bring forward a ' Second Gentleman,' newly arrived 
at the palace, and have him apprised in our hearing, 
by the ' First Gentleman,' as to what is going on at 
court. The First Gentleman is ostensibly attached 
to the King's household, but really has been created, 
along with his companion, on purpose to give us this 
information. Neither of them is needed afterward 
or appears again. 

The first sixty-nine lines thus serve as a sort of in- 
troduction to the play. Throughout the dialogue of 
the two Gentlemen the author is evidently at pains to 

9 



10 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

justify Imogen, by praises of Posthumus and of his 
family, for taking a husband so far beneath her rank. 
He now brings in his heroine. Her secret marriage 
with Posthumus has just been confessed to, and great 
is the commotion that it arouses. All the courtiers look 
displeased, while they inwardly rejoice that Imogen 
has rescued herself, for the time being, from the 
Queen's scheming. The King has wrathfully ban- 
ished the husband, and ordered the bride to prison. 
The Queen ostensibly interposes in her stepdaughter's 
behalf, gives her the freedom of the palace, and pro- 
poses even to allow the lovers a leave-taking. But 
her falseness is wholly transparent — almost, indeed, 
ironical, as (11. 70-79) her first words show : — 

No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, 
After the slander of most stepmothers, 
Evil-ey'd unto you ; you're my prisoner, but 
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys 
That lock up your restraint. — For you, Posthumus, 
So soon as I can win the offended King, 
I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet 
The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good 
You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience 
Your wisdom may inform you. 

The reason of the Queen's suggestion to Posthumus, 
that he lean unto his sentence, is perhaps some fear 
lest he linger about the capitol disguised, and con- 
tinue his witchcraft over her prisoner. Posthumus 
somewhat nervously, as if he had no rights or wish 
but the Queen's will, and without waiting for the 
least sign or word from Imogen, as to when or how 



CYMBELINE I. i II 

she may best bear the shock of parting, declares that 
he will hence to-day. Have we assumed that she is un- 
nerved, prostrated, crushed ? Let us hear (11. 84-88) 
her speak. 

Dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant 

Can tickle where she wounds ! My dearest husband, 

I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing — 

Always reserv'd my holy duty — what 

His rage can do on me. I'ou must be gone. 

The divinest thing in the world is the repose, the 
spiritual sufficiency which can forestall all the effect 
of wickedness and weakness. Lofty indeed The repose 
and strong must be the mind of a princess °^ Imogen, 
whom, at such a moment, the pretended, exasperating 
considerateness of the Queen cannot disturb. She is 
able even to remark the effrontery of her inexorable 
tormentor who, * so soon as she can win the offended 
King, will begin to plead for the return of the exile.' 
Most Imogens would have been upset to the point of 
prostration over that. We note, too, the dignity with 
which this bride of a week administers her affliction 
to herself by sending her husband away thus for his 
sake, his safety, 'not comforted to live save that there is 
left somewhere in the world the jewel that she perhaps 
may one day see again.' Not very ample consolation 
surely. But Imogen is content with what would break 
the hearts of most of her sex. There is no outcry, no 
swooning ; there is but the putting of arms about her 
husband's neck, and the coming, now, of quiet tears. 
She would not else be woman. 



12 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Posthumus does not shine in comparison, though 
he is weak but relatively. He seems not to under- 
Posthu- stand what moment has come to him, or how 
musweak ^ ^ ^ should now be to her who 

but rela- 
tively, needs him and for the instant leans upon him. 

He should stand like a rock beneath her. He should 
contribute to her feminine sufficiency all his manly 
strength. He should be ready to stay by her, should 
she so will, forever. But he is ill at ease, and talks 
quite otherwise than in a sustaining way, while Imo- 
gen in silence hangs about him. 

The Queen now enters, on purpose probably to 
interrupt the lovers, and prevent any plans they may 
be making for fidelity from becoming too complete. 
The sight of Posthumus half trying to get free from 
Imogen, who does not stir at the intrusion, seemingly 
resolves her to bring the King in to see the spectacle. 
Posthumus is disquieted more than ever, and attempts 
to release himself with a commonplace adieu. Imo- 
gen, beautifully detaining him, misses nothing from 
his fervour, and appears not to notice his unrest. This 
Imogen parting is of infinite concern to her, and she 
uncon- has prepared for it. She takes from her 

scious , , . f 1 1 

of her bosom a resplendent ring, one of the royal 

rank. jewels, wom at some time by her mother, 

though never, we may be sure, by her. It will make 
Posthumus conspicuous to wear it. It may endanger 
his safety, in exile, to be the owner of it ; for, as a 
rule, only princes, in guarded palaces, display such 
treasures. But Imogen does not consider the ring too 
precious for a parting gift, or think it incongruous 



CYMBELINE I, i 1 3 

that Posthumus should possess it. She does not re- 
member that her mother was a queen, or that Posthu- 
mus has not yet been made a lord, or indeed a knight. 
Posthumus knows his bride's mind too well to ven- 
ture any protest. Now comes his turn. He has but 
an uncostly bracelet, which he knows Imogen so little 
as fairly to be ashamed of leaving with her as a keep- 
sake. But he does recognise (11. 1 18-123) his false 
position in being the lover of the royal heir. 

And, sweetest, fairest, 
As I my poor self did exchange for you, 
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 
I still win of you. For my sake wear this ; 
It is a manacle of love. I'll place it 
Upon this fairest prisoner. 

There is a very palpable difference between the tone 
of his utterances and of hers, and a difference surely 
not to his advantage. But we can understand how 
she has come to see in him her hero. Imogen Imogen 
realises that the moment of parting has been not of a 
reached. Most feminine minds would now be imagina- 
quickened to some degree of prophetic pene- *'°"- 
tration ; but she has neither golden hopes of reunion 
nor forebodings of long or final separation. Her 
mind is not vividly or diviningly imaginative, but 
must work in a matter-of-fact way from absolute 
materials or conditions given. She will not be good 
at guessing riddles. The future is to her not dark, 
but merely hidden. 

The scene is laid, according to the heading in our 
texts, in the garden of the King's palace, though the 



14 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

first printed copies do not say so. The First Folio no- 
■y^ ,i,g where sets the scenes. But there is no ques- 
sceneiaid tion that the amendment is correct. The 
inagar en. q^^^j^^ £qj. instance, tells US (11. 103, 104)^ 
that she will move the King ' to walk this way,' which 
was evidently not along the corridors, or through rooms, 
inside. It thus appears that the Queen has arranged 
for the lovers a meeting-place commanded by the pal- 
ace windows, so as to deny them privacy ; or, rather, 
that Shakespeare, back of the Queen, ordains the 
situation in order that the King and his lords may 
have an opportunity to surprise the pair. This 
now they do, apparently, by coming up with stealthy 
steps. Posthumus leaps aside, though Imogen is un- 
moved ; while the King rages, and with threatening 
gestures pursues Posthumus. 

Posthumus has certainly no ill-will toward any- 
body ; he blesses the * good remainders ' of the 
court. He has small reason ; for he must 

Imogen s ' 

absolute know that the Queen will attempt even yet 
self-control. ^^ ^j-ing about the marriage of Imogen with 
Cloten, and that the King will never countenance him, 
under present domestic conditions, as a son-in-law. 
He hastens away, perhaps for the King's comfort, 
perhaps also for his own, and forgets the word of 
farewell to Imogen that he had hoped to say again. 
Imogen makes no outcry, feels no approach of swoon- 
ing, and is not tempted to indulge herself in any mar- 
tyrdom. In absolute self-control she bears her pain, 

^ Line references here, and throughout, are to the numberings of 
the Gloie Shakespeare text. 



CYMBELINE I. i 1 5 

and still has strength to recognise that the sternest 
experiences of life are now upon her. Does the 
King hear her words ? It seems not so. Imogen has 
no wish to enhance his passion, or betray how deeply 
his punishment afflicts her. Cymbeline, shaking with 
wrath, taunts her for disloyalty to his wishes. Imo- 
gen's perfect self-command is again exhibited. Over 
love matters it is not difficult for daughters to bandy 
words with irate sires. Imogen has no insolent or 
saucy phrases ; and with a royal dignity that her father 
lacks begs him to shun the risk of mortal injury that 
excitement, at his years, may bring Even in his 
dotard devotion to the adventuress, who has alienated 
all the love he once bore to his daughter, she would 
guard him tenderly. 

Cymbeline now betrays the degree (1. 138) to which 
his designing helpmeet has assumed control over his 
mind. 

That mightst have had the sole son of my Queen ! 

The impHcation that, were there other sons, any one 
of them would have been an enviable match for her, 
is exasperating enough. But Imogen will not lose 
her temper. Posthumus's blood of course is as good 
as the Queen's son's. Cymbeline accuses her of in- 
tending to make Posthumus his successor : — 

Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne 
A seat for baseness. 

Imogen does not deny that she is willing to see 
that outcome : ' No ; I rather added a lustre to it.' 
When Cymbeline retorts that she is 'vile,' or 'of 



l6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

low tastes,' Imogen has yet the grace (11. 143-147) 
to answer quietly, and according to the verities, — 

Sir, 
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus ; 
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is 
A man worth any woman, overbuys me 
Almost the sum he pays. 

To affirm that Posthumus has thrown away on her, 
the heir of all Britain, almost the whole of the pur- 
chase price, himself, who holds not so much as a 
foot of fief, is democratic and revolutionary enough 
to give the King a palsy. But he seems to be even 
Imogen's Parting with his violence under the influ- 
ciearsee- encc of Imogen's firm looks and will. The 
'"^' absurd doctrine of the present court, that 

rank makes worth, and that Cloten may claim fitness 
for kingship on no sounder pretensions, forces her 
(11. 148-150) to a protest, which, nevertheless, she 
makes meekly personal, and not critical or denuncia- 
tory : — 

Would I were 
A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus 
Our neighbour shepherd's son ! 

There is hope surely for the race when women, 
born in kings' houses, and bred to luxury, see with 
such clearness, and stand for truth like that. 

Pisanio, servant of Posthumus hitherto, now enters. 
His face shows concern, and the Queen seems to 
presume that he has news of interest to herself. 
And she is not wrong. As Posthumus went out from 
the palace garden, the Queen's son, Cloten, must 



CYMBELINE I. i 1/ 

needs make an insolent, cowardly thrust upon him 
with his rapier, an instrument that Cloten ^, 

^ ' Cloten's 

handles none too well. But he has assaulted assault 
a master of that weapon ; whereat Posthu- "p°" ^°^' 

^ thumus. 

mus, good-naturedly, gives Cloten a few 
lively bouts for exercise. Gentlemen of the court, 
after a little enjoyment of the fun, with sober faces, 
have seen to it that Cloten receives no severe pun- 
ishment for his folly, and have stopped the scan- 
dal. Imogen's amused contempt at the affront is 
said aloud : ' If your son were not under the protec- 
tion of my father, he would not have escaped so 
comfortably. I wish that the two swordsmen were 
where they could not be parted, that I might hold 
them to an issue.' Imogen is not shocked at the 
idea of Cloten's getting the reward of his villany ; 
she belongs to a duelHng generation. But no woman 
has yet been born, having a husband of Posthumus's 
worth, but would be proud of his strong arm too. 
The Queen, until the outcome has been told, is evi- 
dently in a scare. Pisanio, now complimented in- 
sincerely by the Queen for past fidelity, is ^j^^^ ^j^^ 
made to understand that he shall be con- Queen 
tinned in service to Imogen. The Queen ^""^^^ 
proposes, by taking Imogen's part against the King, 
and by plying her with pretentious kindnesses, like 
this one, to persuade her to an annulment of her 
marriage ; and she sends Pisanio out that she even 
now may employ the time. Imogen, who has given 
audiences before, and knows how long the Queen's 
reasons will hold out, tells Pisanio, in the Queen's 



1 8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

hearing, when he shall return. Thus has the author 
indicated to us to what extent Imogen is to be so- 
licited, on this day of days, with her husband not 
yet gone, to wed his rival. With this, the scene in 
the palace garden, in which so much concerning the 
King's court, and of those who live there, has been 
revealed, is rounded to a close. 

SCENE II 

The author of course made Cloten assault Pos- 
thumus, in the first scene, in order to set our feelings 
against him in advance. Cloten is to suffer a hard 
fate, and we are not to care. The treatment before 
us will not call for much penetration, or reading 
between the lines. When we have learned the Eliza- 
bethan terms and turns completely, the purport of 
the whole will be potentially in reach. The dialogue 
is in prose, the subject not warranting the metric 
form. Cloten has just been rescued from the fenc- 
ing-bout, and is shown in a state of perspiration that 
little suits with a gentleman of his cloth. Posthumus 
has just disappeared from the scene ; and the two 
Lords, who have posed in the affair as Cloten's 
seconds, are covering his disgrace with obsequious 
attentions. 

Shakespeare's purpose in this situation is obviously 
to enact to us the degree of Cloten's imbecility. The 
The sense- ^^llow probably suspects that all has not 
lessness of gone exactly well with him, but the First 
Cloten. Lord actually flatters him into thinking 
that he has covered himself with glory. The Second 



CYMBELINE I. iii 



19 



Lord deepens the effect, somewhat awkwardly, it 
must be owned, by his sarcastic asides, through 
which his surcharged soul has vent. Cloten's conceit 
of greatness, since his mother married with the King, 
excludes all peers, all potentates from rivalry with 
himself. The Second Lord, seemingly for pity, — or 
is it conscience .-' — will contribute no word of praise or 
flattery to feed his pride. Only at the end does he 
venture speech, when Cloten insists that his friends 
shall not ' attend,' but walk abreast with him. 

Evidently Shakespeare is not yet fully at work. 
Neither in this scene nor in the preceding does his 
hand suggest the cunning that it has known in most 
earlier plays. Particularly this plan of character 
contrasts, which presents first a scene of Imogen, 
and then of Cloten, and then of Imogen again, is 
unexampled in all his work elsewhere. 

SCENE HI 

Pisanio has come back from the harbour, where he . 
saw Posthumus embark, and sail out into the offing. 
Imogen has been hstening spell-bound to his report. 
The peculiar objectiveness of her mind is evident in 
the conception of Pisanio as becoming a fixture by 
the shore, and interrogating every sail, whether 
it have tidings from the exiled one. Then 
the very words last spoken are asked for, tiveness of 
and the last gesture. Thus does the imagi- Imogen's 

1 • 1 r -1 mind. 

nation of Imogen employ itself, gropingly 

and almost blindly, among details, having no wing 

for flight. The mention of the senseless linen that he 



20 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

kissed, when her own lips might have contributed 
the responsiveness that it lacked, irks her with the 
thought of loss. Then sets in the conviction that 
there must have been something yet to do, which she 
had surely added, could she have been there in 
Pisanio's stead, — a sentiment beautiful, in this mo- 
ment of desolation, even to pathos. Here is a bride, 
surely not of sympathy or affection merely, but of 
deeds (11. 14-21): — 

Itiiogen. Thou shouldst have made him 

As little as a crow, or less, ere left 
To after-eye him. 

Pisanio. Madam, so I did. 

hnogen. I would have broke mine eye-strings, crack'd 
them but 
To look upon him, till the diminution 
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle, — 
Nay, follow'd him till he melted from 
The smallness of a gnat to air, — 

' and then, only, when there was nothing more of devo- 
tion to be rendered, I would have turned mine eye 
and wept ! ' Yet this devotion costs Imogen no regret 
or consciousness of sacrifice. Her joy is not in her- 
self, and she is unaware how centrifugal is her living. 
Posthumus cannot forget that he has wedded a 
princess, though he is not without knowledge of her 
Posthu- worth. There is somewhat of the romantic 
'"antlc^' ^'^ ^^^ temperament, while of that quality 
nature. Imogen conspicuously lacks. She is liter- 
ally to him his queen, and he seems {cf. 1. 5 above, 
and i. 92, 99) always to call her so. His brain is full 
of her social eminence, and of the glamour which, to 



^ 



CYMBELINE I. in 21 

him, surrounds her goings. But Imogen, on the con- 
trary, discerns all the hollowness of court magnifi- 
cence. Her thoughts are not of the crown, rightfully 
hers, but of her needle, and this we may be sure {cf. 
1. 19, and i. 168) is at no time long absent from her 
hand. 

Imogen has been well revealed before, in kind ; 
plainly this scene is to paint her to us in degree. 
Pisanio, conceived apparently, for better sus- Imogen ai- 
tainment of the proprieties, as of at least ways wifely. 
twice her years, is one to whom she may talk about 
Posthumus ; and by way of him she is made to exhibit 
something of the purity and beauty of her spirit. 
While she cannot in visions follow her lover to Italy, 
she can appoint periods each day sacred to thoughts 
of him. So shall she yet have cares, with Posthumus 
absent, quite as were they not divided, and she had 
been his homekeeper. Noon, midnight, and the sixth 
hour of morn shall she be in heaven for him. Mani- 
festly there shall not be much time for empty living, 
nor indeed for sleep. Then, that we may hear more, 
she is made to tell Pisanio of her incomplete leave- 
taking, — how she had contrived two words which 
she was to have administered as a charm, with her 
kiss between ; but (11. 35-37) then — 

comes in my father 
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, 
Shakes all our buds from growing. 

Withal, the whole is told in no dialect of silliness, but 
in serious and lofty-minded diction. 



22 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

The pretty story stops, for Imogen is sent for. 
Two interviews with the Queen in one day ; we know 
for what. 

SCENE IV 

The scene now shifts to Italy. Posthumus has 
been made to tell {cf. i. 97, 98) that his exile will be 
spent in Rome, at the house of his father's 
must^pro- friend Philario. To provide him honourable 
vide for entertainment, Shakespeare but makes Phi- 
mus an l^rio to have been under obhgations {cf. i. 
honourable 29-33) to SiciHus in Certain Roman wars. 

asylum. . -i-^i -i • » 

The conversation among Philario s guests 
is of Posthumus, who has arrived but lately. It is 
known that he has married a king's daughter and 
been exiled for it; and these facts are regarded, 
not unnaturally, as discreditable to him as well as 
her. The Dutchman and the Spaniard are too 
slow of speech and mind to join in the dialogue, 
but we may safely account them not more charita- 
ble than the others. Philario feels it necessary to 
warn the company, as Posthumus comes in, against 
incivility to his friend. The Frenchman at once 
presents him eminence, both with eye and tongue, 
while lachimo lies in wait. After half a dozen para- 
graphs comes (1. 56) his opportunity : — 

lachifuo. Can we, with manners, ask what was 
the difference? 

Frenchfuan, ' Safely, I think. It was a conten- 
tion in public, which will, without gainsaying, bear 
being reported. It was much like the dispute that 
was precipitated last night, when we fell to praising 



CYMBELINE I. iv 23 

the sweethearts of our respective countries; this 
gentleman at that time vouching, — and by an affir- 
mation he would stand to with his sword, his to be 
fairer, more virtuous, wiser, more chaste, better pro- 
vided with the quality of constancy, and less tempta- 
ble than any rarest of our ladies in Prance.' 

This foolish praise was uttered, years before, in 
earliest foreign travel. The author thinks too much 
of his heroine to give her a husband who would say- 
it now. But the occasion is sufficient for lachimo ; 
he thus administers the first stroke of his Machiavel- 
lian craft : — 

That lady is not now living, or the gentleman's 
opinion by this worn out. 

Posthumus, as we should judge to-day, was under 
no obligation so strong as to hold his peace, and keep 
his wife's honour from being bandied about in such a 
company. But Posthumus feels that he must vindi- 
cate the integrity of his lady at any cost to him or 
her. Such was the sentiment of the old chivalry, not 
yet dead in Shakespeare's times. He answers 
stiffly, — 

She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. 

Posthumus, from now on, is easy game. Some 
good angel should have warned him against conten- 
tion with one of lago's breed. He thinks he Posthu- 
is dealing forbearingly with an honest man. ™"s no 
lachimo will need but to goad him gently, the wily 
to make him lose his head, and bring him Italian, 
under full control ; and this will his pursuer do, 
though we cannot yet see why. What Briton could 
have detected the strategy in this rejoinder .-* 



24 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

You must not so far prefer her fore ours of Italy. 

Posthumus has not said anything about the young 
women of Italy, but of course cannot remember his 
words exactly. He is not combative, and tries to 
withdraw with a general remark, which, under right 
circumstances, would have left all well. But lachimo 
will not have it so. He has caught sight of 

lacnimo ° ° 

will have the ring on Posthumus's finger, and prob- 
the Queen's ^|^|y rccogniscs that this untitled and por- 
tionless bridegroom can have come by it only 
through his marriage with a king's daughter. lach- 
imo will have the Queen's jewel, and make a guy of 
Posthumus besides. 

^As fair and as good — a kind of poised com- 
parison — had been something too fair and ioo good 
for any lady in Britain. If she went before others 
I have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres many 
I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled 
many; but I have not seen the most precious dia- 
mond that is, nor you the lady.' 

lachimo very deftly covers his interest in the ring, 

K which he implies he has seen surpassed in brilliancy. 

He has not aroused Posthumus by the animus made 

so plain in his last utterance. He now (1. 94) tries 

sarcasm : — 

Which the gods have given you ? 

But even this taunt fails to exasperate the fiefless and 
homeless wanderer. lachimo follows with an insinu- 
ation : — 

You may wear her in title yours, — 

at which Posthumus very neatly turns his flank : — 



CYMBELINE I. iv 25 

' Your Italy contains no so accomplished a courtier 
to vanquish the honour of my mistress, if, in the hold- 
ing or loss of that, you term her frail. I do nothing 
doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, 
I fear not for my ring.' 

Philario attempts now to stop the dialogue. He 
understands of course what lachimo is about, and is 
bound to protect his guest. Posthumus ventures 
some pungent comments on lachimo's manners, 
which, were he not shameless, would silence him. 
But the fellow, lago-like, makes an advantage out of 
the rebuff : — 

Posthumus. 'This worthy signior — I am much 
obliged to him — is not at all inclined to be formal 
with me : we have been familiar from the very first 
moment.' 

lachimo. ' With five times so much conversation, I 
should get ground of your fair mistress, make her 
retreat, even to the surrender, had I admittance 
and opportunity as a help.' 

Posthui7ius. No, no. 

lachitno. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of 
my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o'er- 
values it something. 

We see that the ring has considerably appreciated, 
since lachimo's first mention of it. He needs to 
flatter Posthumus now. On his outrageous preten- 
sions of being a lady-killer, Posthumus, in chivalrous 
and indignant defence of the sex he is slandering, 
reads him a pretty vigorous lesson : — 

Posthumus. ' You are greatly deceived in allow- 
ing yourself to believe any such thing; and I don't 
doubt you are habitually sustaining what you de- 
serve by your attempts.' 



26 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

lacJiimo. WTiat's that? 

Posthumus. 'A repulse; though your attempt, 
as you call it, deserves more, — a castigation, too.' 

Philario at this point interferes ; for Posthumus is 
getting excited, and lachimo is mercilessly crowding 
him to his doom. The conversation has dwindled to 
this one topic, while Philario would have it general. 
But lachimo does not mind Philario, who has no present 
power of caUing him to account. 

lachimo. Would I had put my estate and my 
neighbour-'' s on the approbation of what I have spoken. 

Posthumus. What lady would you choose to 
assail ? 

lachimo. Yours, who in constancy you think 
stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats, 
to your ring, that, commend me to the court where 
your lady is ... I will bring from thence that 
honour of hers which you imagine so reserved. 

Posthumus. I will wage against your go\d, gold 
to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. 

Posthumus has no chance of getting together ten 
thousand ducats, but in his present condition of mind 
he thinks he has, and declares he will cover the bet. 
To part with his ring, merely while it shall lie in 
pledge, he cannot think of doing. lachimo has but to 
taunt him with being really unconfident of his wife, 
to bring him (11. 146-149) to the terms proposed : — 

' You are afraid; I see that you have some appre- 
hensions about the hereafter in you, — that you are 
really afraid.^ 

Posthumus cannot longer contain himself. Ring or 
no ring, he must beat the fellow, and punish him ; and 



CYMBELINE I. iv 2/ 

of course he shall soon have his ring back from the 
stake-holder. 

' Let there be covenants drawn between us. My 
mistress exceeds in worth even the mammoth propor- 
tions of your evil thinking. I dai'e you to this 
match. Here's my ring ! ' 

Philario calls out that he will not have the dispute 
end in a bet, but lachimo slaps his leg, and cries, 
much louder, By the gods, _;w/r(? too late ; it is one. 

' If I come off, and leave her such as you trust her, 
she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are 
yours : provided I have your endorsement for my 
more convenient admittance and reception.' 

Very slyly has the author contrived to attach the last 
clause as a rider to the whole; on it will depend the 
access of lachimo to the British court. Posthumus 
cannot realise what he is assenting to. Like a gambler, 
with the mad expectation of winning, he is carried 
away captive by the cool avarice of his adversary, who 
knows how the dice are loaded. That ring is too grand 
a thing for the hand of a friendless and witless upstart, 
like this stranger, to be wearing. Then there is be- 
sides, for lachimo, the excitement of an adventure to 
look forward to. Meanwhile poor Imogen, badgered, 
heartsore, and worn, bearing the chief burdens of this 
separation, in far-off Britain, little dreams that her 
husband has been forced, in sheer defence of her 
honour, to consent that an lachimo shall cross her path. 
Such is the evolution of lachimo's plot to see Imo- 
gen, and of Posthumus's willingness to stake her 



28 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ring. The scene has, perhaps, read in certain 
moods, seemed long, and perhaps indeed 
indispen- Unnecessary. But it is vital to the play, and 
sable to the jg really shorter than most other dramatists, 
^° " accompHshing as much, could have devised. 

To be sure, it is not a pleasant story ; but Shakespeare 
has made it as free from offensiveness as he could. 
An lachimo of real life would have said much 
coarser things. 

SCENE V 

The Queen is now discovered to us with her court 

ladies and chief physician : a rather unusual grouping, 

since there is no one ill. The Queen has 

The 

Queen fur- been exhibited pretty effectually already, and 
ther char- ^g wonder why we are to have her before 

acterised. , • r <- • i 

us, as the chief figure, m another scene. 
There is to be a flower-gathering excursion, perhaps 
beyond the palace gardens, but not of the usual sort, 
not for the pleasure of it; and the Queen has pre- 
pared, to assist her purpose, a formal list. Did ever 
women, in reach of flowers with the dew on them, 
behave before like this ? Save the stepdame, we may 
safely assume that no one of the company would have 
done so here. 

As soon as the court ladies are out of hearing, the 
Queen asks the physician concerning drugs, which he 
has been commissioned to procure. These he seems 
to give her. But it is at once made known to us that 
they are poisons, and of a kind that Shakespeare's gen- 
eration were more familiar with than we, such, namely, 



CYMBELINE I. v 29 

as produce death with certainty, but so remotely after 
administering as quite to prevent detection of the poi- 
soner, or the time and manner of his deed. We are 
inchned to be sceptical about such poisons naiian 
now, but the audiences for whom this play po'sons. 
was written most steadfastly believed in them. Ed- 
ward VI, it was held by many, had died by this means. 
The doctor is made, not very deftly, to disclose the 
character of these drugs, through • asking the Queen 
why she has required them, since it is an inquiry made 
most naturally before complying. 

The Queen by her response arouses our suspicion 
very strongly. She has been the doctor's pupil, and 
preeminently before her marriage, when she was 
acquiring certain accomplishments, one of ^j^^ oueen 
which seems to have recommended her to wooed for 
the King's imagination. Now, very lately, fgcdons.' 
probably since Posthumus's going, she has 
conceived it well to amplify her judgment in other 
conclusions. She admits that she intends to use the 
drugs poisonously, but not on human creatures. Yet, 
as Pisanio enters, she declares that he shall be the 
subject of her first experiment. What she means to 
do eventually, with the crown in prospect, need not 
be more broadly hinted. 

The careless construction of the play is evident in 
the asides. The author uses one of these to r^^^ ^^^^_ 
bring out from the doctor the explanation less con- 
that the drugs are not deadly after all. On ^j^^ p,^y_ 
accomplishing this, Shakespeare is through 
with him, and makes the Queen dismiss him, that 



30 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

she may talk of Imogen to Pisanio. Her (1. 46) 

first inquiry, — 

Weeps she still, say'st thou ? — 

eloquently betrays that she is becoming pretty effec- 
tually acquainted with her prisoner, and that she begins 
to despair of winning Imogen away from Posthumus 
to Cloten, She confidently affirms that Posthumus's 
plight is more hopeless than ever, and hints broadly 
that pressure is being brought to bear upon Philario, 
to make him withdraw his hospitality. This, however, 
we are forced to conclude, is merely falsehood. The 
Queen has no respect for the intelligence of such as 
she would make her dupes ; and she plies Pisanio 
with the most outrageous patronising. To complete 
the flattery, she drops, as by accident, the box of 
drugs, and Pisanio, springing with courtly alacrity to 
restore it to her, is bidden keep it for his pains. With 
ready mendacity, she declares that she has saved the 
King's life five times already with that medicine. 
Pisanio is naturally disinclined to keep so precious 
a cordial, but the Queen entreats. Quite evidently 
this box of drugs will be heard of later in the plot. 

The Queen now sends for the women, who reenter 
bearing large bundles of fresh blossoms. But the 
Queen does not feel prompted to smell or handle any, 
not even of the violets, which, alone, with the cowslips 
and primroses, she has carried to her laboratory. Will 
she distil court perfumes from them, — or is it all a 
bhnd .? 

The purpose of the scene is thus the twofold one 
of introducing the ruse of the physician as a factor 



CYMBELINE I. vi 3 1 

in the plot, and of exhibiting the Queen's character 
in degree ; the latter having been already, in Scene i, 
presented to us in kind. 

SCENE VI 

Will the author force us to witness the infamous 
wooing of Imogen by lachimo ? He will not omit 
it; not because he will joy to write it, or 

lachimo 

because he does not care for our feelmgs, to be influ- 
or thinks we need to see his heroine tried. ^^^^^ ^y 

Imogen. 

He would save her this interview with lach- 
imo if by any means he might. But he wishes us 
to know what influence can be wrought upon lachimo 
by an Imogen. The scene opens with a mood of 
dejection and tears. The weeks of the Queen's very 
civil but persistent solicitation drag heavily. There 
is no golden promise in the sky to which she looks. 
But she will live true to herself, no matter if in a 
neatherd's cottage. 

Blest be those, 
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, 
Which seasons comfort. 

She cries out in dismay ; for there is a nobleman 
approaching whom she does not know. Her eyes 
are red, and she would see no stranger. But Pisanio, 
asking no leave, evidently because of some message 
or commission from Posthumus, brings the guest 
before her. At mention of her lord, the colour comes 
back to her pale cheek. 

lachimo has long been practised in the effects of 
boldness. He should, as Posthumus's friend, show 



32 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

himself most chivalrous and worshipful here ; but 
Imogen, though a king's daughter, hears no false note 
(11. 11-13) in the first words: — 

Change you, madam ? 
The worthy Leonatus is in safety, 
And greets your highness dearly. 

lachimo evidently knows how to address a young 

wife whose husband is in exile. He affects to be 

acquainted with the contents of the letter 

Imogen 

at first that he presents, as if he were of Posthu- 

subordi- mus's counscl. So far, he has advantaged 

nated. ' . ° 

himself by the interview ; he has impressed 
Imogen as of an obtrusive, compelling personality. In 
her weary and heart-sick frame of mind she no doubt 
dreads the presence of such a man, and in so far he has 
subordinated her. lachimo, for his part, has been sur- 
prised and dismayed at the repose and strength of 
her patrician bearing. Perhaps the dames of Italy 
have the habit of meeting his impudent, command- 
ing gaze with looks full of mischief and challenge ; 
his boastings to Posthumus cannot have meant much 
less. But here is a type of womanhood that does 
not know and cannot guess what such manners mean, 
lachimo begins to feel the stir of something like rev- 
erence within : — 

All of her that is out of door, most rich ! 

If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare. 

She is alone the Arabian bird, and I 

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend ! 

Arm me, audacity, from head to foot ! 

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; 

Rather, directly fly. 



CYMBELINE I. vi 33 

When was this man ever persuaded before of so 
much as the existence of the phenix of virtue ? It 
malces him obviously uncomfortable to anticipate the 
role that he must undertake. Imogen for the moment 
has been lost in her husband's letter. Posthumus 
has fulfilled his part of the diabolic compact. We 
wonder indeed how he could say, except in a quibble, 
that he is infinitely tied to lachimo's kindnesses. 
Imogen reads to her guest the last words of the 
letter, as a means of paying him the respect which 
her husband bespeaks, and partly because she would 
not be selfishly absorbed in her own joys. Her mood 
toward him is altered. Why, here is instead of a 
stranger a dear friend of her husband, one who has 
sweetened his homelessness and desolation with 
gracious offices. Being the matter-of-fact, domestic 
creature that we know, she has no doubt begun al- 
ready to cast about for means of entertaining him. 
But she remembers that she is in effect a prisoner. 
Has her husband hinted to his friend that her liberty 
in her father's house is scanted ? We catch clearly 
(11. 29-31) the note of perplexity : — 

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I 
Have words to bid you, and shall find it so 
In all that I can do. 

But lachimo little dreams how the lady's mind is 
cumbered for him, at this rare moment, in lachimo 
noble hospitality ; he is too absorbed in his cannot 

'■ ■' bring him- 

pitiable attempt to fascinate her. He pro- seiftopre- 
ceeds, scrutinising her beauty of face and «endtoan 

^ -^ amorous 

figure, in a sexless, almost an inventorying mood. 

D 



34 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

mood, to make comments of surprise. He expects 
to be understood as implying that large distinc- 
tions of charm, palpable enough to him, are not 
discerned by another pair of eyes, of course Pos- 
thumus's. But in this, which would have made 
another sort of princess understand that she was de- 
spised and rejected, and in favour of a rival vastly her 
inferior, Imogen sees nothing, suspects nothing, and is 
objective enough even to ask what makes the wonder, 
lachimo essays to grow more pointed, and hints 
broadly that there are two between whom her hus- 
band chooses. Imogen's obtuseness grows, and 
lachimo, perhaps somewhat from the fear that he is 
being made game of in the presence of her servant, 
manages to invent a reason for sending that super- 
numerary out. But after Pisanio's exit, the same 
honest, earnest eyes rest upon lachimo, and while he 
waits perhaps to recover his inspiration, he hears 
(1. 56) an inquiry not anticipated in the letter : — 

Continues well my lord ? His health, beseech you ? 

lachimo has exhausted his boldness. Little indeed 
has come of it. Nothing is more remarkable than 
The Ian- ^^^ Severely proper language in which the 
guage en- presence of this woman has forced him to 
Imogen^ clothc his effrontery. Has he ever main- 
from lach- taiucd such spcech for so long before to man 
or woman ? Not a syllable of real coarse- 
ness has passed his lips. His next expedient, the 
attempt to arouse jealousy having failed, is to assure 
Imogen of Posthumus's levity. She has asked if her 



CYMBELINE I. vi 35 

husband keeps cheerful. That furnishes the cue; 
and (11. 59-61) the answer is, — 

Exceeding pleasant ; none a stranger there 
So fnerry and so gamesome. He is call'd 
The Briton reveller. 

How would it make most brides feel to be assured 
that their exiled husbands were mysteriously and 
boisterously gay .-" It would be but in keeping that 
Posthumus should maintain a lenten soberness for 
Imogen's sake, while she is suffering for his sake, 
being deprived of her liberty even more than he has 
been deprived of his. But Imogen has no such envy 
as to require that her husband endure the same sorrow 
as herself. She believes what lachimo tells her, and 
does not understand it, yet finds it all right to her. 
She remembers, however, that it was once not so with 
him: — 

When he was here 
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times 
Not knowing why. 

There is so much of Gothic repose, of Madonna- 
like high-mindedness and renunciation that it is 
strange lachimo can go on. There is sadness enough, 
we may be sure, in the eyes that are looking upon him 
now, trying to find the truth that this messenger is so 
unwilling to declare. The destroyer of her peace 
reports that her husband makes insinuations against 
her and all her sex, but the anxious, inquiring look 
seems not to change. lachimo affirms broadly, and 
no doubt with a knowing shrug that would compromise 
a saint, that some men are much to blame. But when 



36 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Imogen asks, with dawning dismay, if he means her 
husband, he is forced (1. 78) to answer No : — 

Not he ; but heaven's bounty towards him might 

Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much ; 

In you [it], which I account his, [is] beyond all talents. 

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound 

To pity too. 

Imogen. What do you pity, sir ? 

lachitno. Two creatures heartily. 

But the innuendo does not take. Imogen is hopelessly 
obtuse. She cannot be roused, as the Italian donna 
would have been aroused insanely, long before, to a 
, , jealous mood. Instead, remembering per- 

Imogens ■' ' & r 

concern for haps how these weeks since her husband's 
looks^ ^ exile must have told upon her features, — 
for even an Imogen cares when her cheek 
is pale and wasted, — she anxiously inquires, — 

Am / one, sir ? 
You look on me. What wrack discern you in me 
Deserves your pity ? 

lachimo answers darkly, that it is all as if he were to 
hide from the radiant sun, and get solace in a dungeon 
by the dying light of an unsnuffed candle. But not 
only does this inexplicable British woman fail to get 
the hint again ; she even turns on him with a Juno's 
dignity, and demands the reason for his presump- 
tion : — 

I pray you, sir, 

Deliver with more opettness your answers 
To my demands. Why do you pity me ? 

None but one of the breed of lago, who dared to 
sport with the enraged Othello, would have risked 



CYMBELINE I. vi 37 

further impertinence with this princess. lachimo 
thinks that one dark saying more will complete the 
mischief. He utters but certain significant words of 
this, affecting to halt aghast at the enormity of what 
is left unsaid. Imogen does not grow incensed, feel- 
ing it now wrong to fall out with the bearer of her 
news. She begs him to tell plainly what he has come 
to report to her. 

lachimo is Italian in nothing so much perhaps as 
ingenuity. It is no hardship for him to suffer a 
check like this ; else were he dismayed and lachimo 
resourceless now. He ventures some hint ventures 

- , . 1 • 1 1 ) 1 1 o"'y dis- 

of compliment to this lady s cheek and hand tant com- 
and eye, but he is very worshipful and dis- pi™ents. 
tant in it all. Imogen is not one whose beauty it will 
do to praise openly : that lachimo has read aright. 
Otherwise he would have made sonnets to her eyebrow 
from the first. His attempt to declare plainly, as 
Imogen has asked, how she is wronged, is deftly sub- 
ordinated to his chivalrous admiration. Nothing so 
well measures the power of her presence, of her pure 
and anxious countenance, as the lofty indirectness 
with which lachimo addresses her at this moment. 
The gist at last is clear : Posthumus has fallen below 
himself, — if this friend says true; and Imogen can- 
not think that he is uttering falsehood. She is too 
unselfish, too noble to feel the wrong done to herself. 
There is no trace of jealousy, no wish to extort pain 
for pain. But lachimo assumes that, since she is 
woman, such must be her feelings, and he prepares 
to use them to his profit. Italian great dames feel 



38 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

such passions, and ply dagger and poison on no 
better evidence. 

lachimo, blinded by his mistake and his success, 
pushes on. He risks another compliment. ' Not I, 
inclined to this tale-bearing, pronounce the beggary 
of his change, but 'tis your graces that charm this story 
out.' That, in Imogen's eyes, amounts to flattery, and 
seems (1. 117) to flash on her the falseness of his 
mind : — 

Let me hear no more ! 

But lachimo grows frantic in his anxiousness for this 
wronged lady. Were Imogen at all aware of the 
dramatic craftiness of his race, his zeal would have 
wrought no pause to her indignation. But the fervour 
and the poignant concern on lachimo's face deceive 
her for a moment yet. 

O dearest soul ! Your cause doth strike my heart 
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady 
So fair, and fasten'd to an empery [that] 
Would make the great'st king double. 

This could not but make an impression upon a Brit- 
ish gentlewoman's credulity, though it would scarcely 
have deceived an Italian lass of ten. The sugges- 
tion besides of Posthumus's ingratitude, that he is 
lavishing his princess-wife's treasures upon dissolute 
companions, will carry, as lachimo believes, a madden- 
ing sting. There is need now, he thinks, but to hint 
of reprisals. But, marvel of marvels, this woman has 
(11. 128-132) no most distant suspicion of what he 
means : — 



CYMBELINE I. vi 39 

Reven^d! 
How should I be reveng'd? T/'this be true, — 
As I have such a heart that both mine ears 
Must not in haste abuse, — if it be trtie, 
How should I \>& reveng'd? 

lachimo's humiliation is not complete. He must 
explain again, deliver with more openness what he 
would have her know. It were enough surely that 
he had said 

Should he make f>ie, — 

but lachimo goes on, rounding out a paragraph that 
Imogen lets him finish, to be sure that her ears do 
not mistake. Then, immediately, she calls her serv- 
ing-man. lachimo, believing, or affecting to believe 
this but a last feint of dissent, advances to attempt a 
kiss. Then (1. 141) he learns what the situation is. 

Away I I do condemn my ears that have 

So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable. 

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 

For such an end [as] thou seek'st, — as base as strange. 

Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far 

From thy report as thou from honour, and 

Solicit'st here a lady that disdains 

Thee and the devil alike. What, ho, Pisanio ! 

Imogen feels no sensitiveness or indignation that 
such a thing has happened to her, never thinks what 
the world would say if it only knew, and Imogen 
probably administers this divine rebuke "°* <^'^^- 

grmed by 

without a blush. The sublime repose of her laehimo's 
nature is even yet unshaken. She has not msoience. 
believed the slander against her husband, she has ex- 
posed the foolish villany of this sorry fellow, and put 



40 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

him to a lifelong shame. Were she as once wholly in 
her father's favour, her triumph would be complete. 
She will not feign the royal vindication, she merely 
presumes it ; but lachimo finds in it undoubtedly none 
the less a menace. It is all in all an incident that 
Imogen will forget quickly, or will remember, because 
inexplicable, without trepidation or regret. 

How an Italian, even of this lago stamp, could 
muster courage to unsay his sayings, surpasses Anglo- 
Saxon knowledge. But even this (11. 162-165) is 
within the role of an lachimo. 

Give me your pardon ! 
I have spoke this to know if your affiance 
Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord, 
That which he is, new o'er. 

Imogen is not surprised to hear her husband praised ; 
her repose is undisturbed even by this contradiction, 
lachimo, getting in acknowledgment but the words 
' You make amends,' goes on with unction to extort 
from the princess at least more than that. He adds 
more praises, and with Italian grace and deference 
asks pardon. But while he is exploiting himself in 
this half-frantic effort, which wins from her (1. 179) 
only the laconic and almost ironic answer, — 

All's well, sir. Take my power i' the court for yours, — 

he is evidently divining a new matter. ' If the crea- 
ture is as devoted to her husband as this 

Imogen is 

tobede- comcs to, why, just through that devotion 

feated ^g^j^ gj^g ]^q trickcd intO compromising con- 

through her . X o 

devotion, ditions that will save me yet the wager. 



CYMBELINE I. VI 4 1 

She is infatuated enough to lavish fondness upon any- 
thing that her husband cares for, and will be bHnd 
to every strategy that purports to honour him.' 
lachimo's fetch is on the instant ready : — 

lachitno. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot 
To entreat your grace but in a small request, 
And yet of moment too, for it concerns 
Your lord. 

Imogen. Pray, what is it ? 

lachiino. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord, — 

Now all is different. The young princess-bride shows 
animation ; her wonderful statuesque repose is well- 
nigh lifted. Here is something to do, a chance for 
love and devotion to express themselves as other than 
mere sentiments : — 

Willingly, 
And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since 
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them 
In my bedchamber. 

Of course. lachimo has divined rightly that Imogen 
cannot do less than keep guard over the treasure that 
she believes is in part her husband's. He Imogen 
shall need but to hint at the trouble it will anxious to 

keep the 

cause her, — 'only for this night,' — to make trunk 
her beg for a longer service. It is the only 'ong^r. 
happiness that has come to her since Posthumus went 
away. She even prays lachimo not to go to-morrow ! 
lachimo explains that he has been carried out of his 
way by his promise to see her, and Imogen, though 
reminded thus of how it has been kept, has so far 
forgotten as to hint again that she would have him 
stay. lachimo is in no danger of flattering himself 



42 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

that it is his presence which she finds acceptable ; 
that he knows too well is the occasion, not the cause. 
So, by way of lachimo's Machiavellian wit and of 
Imogen's objective affection, the author has gained 
approach to the palace and to Imogen's apartments, 
for the trunk, as demanded by the plot. 

Clearly, outside of its plot significance, this is an 
important part of the play. We have seen this Brit- 
lachimo ^^^ princcss, unintcndingly, without effort, 
forced to and, indeed, unconsciously, compel a man 
Imogen "^^° ^^^ ^° rcspect for woman, and who has 
and her affected cven to believe himself a universal 
fascinator, conceive a very deep respect for 
her, and for her sex through her. She knows no sur- 
prises ; she is so at one in her integrity with the eternal 
right that she thinks no evil and feels no need to vindi- 
cate herself against it. She has filled Posthumus with 
a sense of her truth and strength. It grows clearer 
how he could consent that this lachimo should cross 
her path ; he knew that what we have seen happen 
is what would happen. It is not much marvel, then, 
that he has called this wife of his, being unable to 
separate her rank and birth from her personality, 
persistingly a queen. 

Act II 

SCENE I 

There are unpleasant residues of Cloten's char- 
acter to be shown ; and it is the author's 
cioten be- pleasure, while we wait the outcome of 

lated in dis- ^ , . , „ . , i i 

sipation. lachimo s effort with the trunk, to open some 



CYMBELINE II. ii 43 

of them to us. Cloten is a man past thirty, and has 
apparently been so belated in his wild-oats sowing as 
to covet every opportunity of dissipation. He lays 
hundred-pound bets upon his bowling, swears roundly 
when he loses, and knocks down with his bowl the 
man who rebukes him for his oaths. The rank that 
his mother's marriage has brought him, entitles him 
to commit offences upon his inferiors, and insures 
him immunity for any species of behaviour. The 
First Lord, we notice, has tired, seemingly, since 
his former appearance with Cloten, of his flattery ; 
and the Second Lord speaks aloud this time in an 
occasional phrase of irony. The scene is closed with 
a soliloquy, in which the author makes sure that the 
slowest of his audience understands everything, ex- 
cept the lachimo episode, that has been essayed 
thus far. 

SCENE n 

lachimo ended his interview with Imogen, appar- 
ently, when it was yet daylight. Imogen finished 
the letters for her husband somxCthing before , „ 

o Imogen, 

nine o'clock, which was the time of her re- like Lady 
tiring. She has been reading in bed, as and\iiza^' 
seems her habit, during the three hours beth, a 
since. This is clearly meant to establish her 
to us as of an intellectual and literary cast of mind. 
Of course, most ladies of rank are of this sort to-day. 
But in Shakespeare's times there were few reading 
women. Only Lady Jane Grey and Elizabeth, and 
some rare spirits besides, had, to Shakespeare's 
knowledge, bothered themselves much with books. 



44 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

There was, moreover, not much to read. People 
who nowadays can sit down to a fresh book or 
magazine every evening, little realise the dearth of 
edifying literature, then, at least for lady readers. 
We note here also, that, while Imogen has waiting 
women to execute her least behest, she is yet as 
wifely as if she were her own housekeeper. She 
wishes to be waked at dawn, after four hours' sleep, 
that she may resume her cares. She is (11. 8-10), 
withal, devout, — 

To your protection I commend me, gods ! 
From fairies, and the tempters of the night, 
Guard me, beseech ye ! 

But her prayers are vain. Already in the trunk, 

which is doubtless placed where she can see it most 

conveniently, lies in wait a relentless enemy. 

not curious Had shc been curious, had she demanded to 

to see the see the gift of plate that her husband con- 
gift of plate. ., . 

tnbuted some of her money to procure, per- 
haps lachimo's stratagem would have failed. But 
she has surely not asked to see it, being content to 
keep it and guard it, and feel it near. Had she been 
less matter-of-fact and practical, she might have di- 
vined by the modes of telepathy, or in some other 
way, that her doom was here. But she is alone with 
her integrity and sweet devotion. She sleeps. 

It is past, much past two o'clock. The trunk-lid 
rises softly. lachimo is no chicken-hearted dabbler 
in criminality, but he feels instantly, as he lifts his 
head and emerges into the perfumed and silent cham- 
ber, the influences of the place. Tarquin, he at once 



CYMBELINE II. ii 45 

fancies, must have moved thus gently, and felt him- 
self just such a monster. He has come to note dovv^n 
in detail the furnishings and belongings of the room ; 
but the intensity of his impressions makes that un- 
necessary. The taper that the waiting woman left 
lighted discovers to us the arms of the sleeper lying 
bare upon the counterpane, and the bracelet of Pos- 
thumus. But how chances she to be wearing this 
bracelet even when sleeping .-' Her lover did not ask 
her to keep it always upon her arm. But he prom- 
ised that her ring should not part from his finger ; so 
she, without promising or even telling, wears thus 
his bracelet. lachimo at once sees the importance 
of such a token and unclasps it. Were Imogen less 
profoundly locked in slumber, she would probably 
have felt the movement or the loss. But her habit 
of denying herself what she thinks unnecessary 
sleep, prevents her waking. 

The Elizabethans wore no night clothing after 
retiring. Hence it chances here, the coverlet being 
drawn a little by the sleeper's arm, that the crimson 
mark over the left breast is disclosed. The know- 
ledge of this, lachimo feels, is the lady's doom : 
she will be proved unfaithful, and her husband will 
be lost to her. The work of the visit has been 
accomplished. The ring shall be his own. , ^. 

^ _ '^ lachimo 

But the sureness of victory brings a changed sees 
feeUng toward his victim : it comes over him iniog^n jis 

° _ we see her. 

what a woman this is. With his Italian 
penetration he sees her as we see her, knows her 
as we know her. He cares nothing for what shall 



46 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ensue to her, but he would be removed from her, 
from the sight of her at once, as far as possible. There 
is no need of hurrying, there is every reason why he 
should not withdraw to his cramping and suffocating 
covert for a long time yet. But, as in a panic, he 
retreats precipitately to enter the trunk again, and 
even (1. 47) lock the lid down upon himself : — 

Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning 
May bare the raven's eye ! I lodge in fear ; 
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. 

He knows that he runs no least risk of detection, or 
punishment, yet he trembles with a vague, inexplica- 
ble dread. He is sensible of only this, that, while 
here is an angel who should inaugurate the presence 
of heaven, he finds hell instead. It is the hell, could 
he but know, that a woman's, such a woman's great- 
ness of soul, can establish within a man, when he has 
put himself at variance with it. The quick, almost 
spiteful strokes of the clock, one, tivo, tJiree, furnish 
a powerfully dramatic close. 

Of course in a play everything of moment must be 
enacted ; that is, must be brought to pass visually to 
the audience. We need to know here just how 
lachimo got the evidence he wanted. In addition, 
the author wishes to show us more completely what 
influences a pure, grand woman can exert, by mere 
presence, because of instinctive reverence in his sex 
for these qualities, upon a strong man who is allied 
with evil. In this spiritual subordination of wrong 
to truth, he leaves the pair. 



CYMBELINE II. iii 47 

But the play, as we have undoubtedly been aware, 
moves slowly. We have taken two pages to explain 
one. Yet this, in the case of genuine literature, is 
always necessary ; for the much is presented poten- 
tially in little. A work of hterary genius is always 
thus potential, and must be spiritually discerned. 
The expansion of what is spiritually discerned into 
concrete details is what is called Interpretation. In 
an artist's work there are hints or proofs of generic 
quaUties, which the discerning mind realises and 
enlarges. There may be time later to discuss with 
some definiteness how this is done. 

SCENE ni 

Cloten was of course unsuccessful in his attempt 
to find lachimo last night to gamble with ; that dis- 
tinguished guest having managed to offer an 
excuse for disappearing. But Cloten did systemat- 
not lose the evening, nevertheless ; the brace L^^"^ , 
of companions with whom we have seen him 
hitherto have stayed by him, and relieved him of his 
allowance from the King's treasury. The time is 
daybreak — the spring season with which the play 
opened having now advanced almost to June — and 
Imogen's waiting-woman has just aroused her mis- 
tress. 

When not in the depths of dissipation, Cloten is 
pressing his suit to Posthumus's wife, though he 
wooes, it would seem, mainly by proxy. He has 
arranged for a serenade to Imogen, his mother hav- 
ing apparently advised that he try music o' mornings, 



48 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

— "they say it will penetrate." But he has hit upon 
the most unpropitious day in all the calendar ; for 
Imogen is in deep vexation at the loss of her bracelet, 
at once missed on waking. It is a vexation not to be 
much allayed, we may be sure, by the attentions or 
presence of Cloten at this untimely hour. 

The musicians sing an exquisite song, one stanza 

of it, and go away with an unprincely fee. Perhaps 

if they had been called back, and paid more 

speaiedoes fittingly, they would have rendered the two 

not indulge songs, in full, as they were bid. But, obvi- 

in episodes. i i • i • ■, <^i i 

ously, the smgle verse is better. Shake- 
speare does not treat his audience to episodes, or this 
singing might otherwise have become one. In lieu 
of response from Imogen's apartments, Cymbeline 
and the Queen appear, we wonder why. The hour 
is absurdly early for such as sleep in king's houses 
to be stirring, and especially for a sovereign of Cym- 
beline's years. We shall probably remember that 
the author has been introducing Imogen and Cloten 
just after each other, and has brought about relations 
between them not well adapted to a scene in common. 
But they are now to have their first interview in our 
sight. To mitigate the antagonism, as well as to give 
Cloten in a measure the royal warrant, the King has 
been somewhat unnaturally worked into the scene. 
The whole is dignified and strengthened by the 
report, introduced by a messenger, that Roman 
ambassadors are awaiting audience. 

Cloten lingers about the doors of Imogen, deter- 
mined to secure some recognition of his serenade, 



CYMBELINE II. in 49 

and of course soliloquises ; an actor cannot wait 
speechless upon the stage. His talk consists mainly 
of obvious propositions ; here he advises with him- 
self concerning the power of gold. One of Imogen's 
women appears. How Cloten is regarded by court 
serving-folk is hinted clearly enough by the way she 
fools with him. Imogen has apparently heard the 
knocking, and guessed the visitor. The mistress of 
this part of the palace seems not unwilling to respond 
in person this morning to the challenge. 

Cloten may now recommend himself in person. 
What resources will he show .-' How manfully and 
gracefully will he woo .-' Here we find un- 
equivocally his measure ; or, shall we not sumes but 
say, it is the measure of the influence ^° ^aii her 

sister. 

Imogen s presence and face exerts upon 
him .'' He salutes her as his sister ! He has the right to 
kiss her hand without the asking ; he calls her fairest ; 
but to put himself hopelessly out of the role of wooer 
by assuming to approach but as a brother shows how 
he weakens. But brother or wooer is, in her present 
mood, all the same to Imogen. Were she inclined to 
mischief, she would have taken him at his word, 
and insisted upon his confining himself to brotherly 
behaviour ever after. She is both too literal and too 
angry (11. 92-95) to think of irony : — 

Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains 
For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give 
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks. 
And scarce can spare them. 

Cloten should have caught the pitch of feeling in 

£ 



50 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

this deliverance. But he must needs make a decla- 
ration, "Still I swear I love you." Imogen listens 
soberly, almost stoically, and deprecates with con- 
siderate sincerity, though vainly : — 

If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me; 

If you swear still, your recompense is siill 

That I regard it not. 

Cloten. This is no answer, 

Imogen. But that you shall not say I yield, 
being silent, 

I would not speak. I pray you, spare me. 'Faith, 

I shall unfold equal discourtesy 

To your best kindness. One of your great knowing 

Should learn, being taught, forbearance, 

Imogen is approaching the limit of her patience. 
She pleads to be let alone ; she indulges in a hint of 
irony. But Cloten has no suspicion of jeopardy, and 
goes on : — 

To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin : 
I will not. 

Immediately his punishment comes. ' How can you 
know anything about madness } Fools are not mad 
folks.' 

The author (1, 58) has shown Cloten sensitive over 
certain words, as ' senseless,' when applied to himself, 
Cloten was once a boy, and had probably compan- 
ions ; and such companions sometimes use exceeding 
plainness of speech toward one another. At any 
rate Cloten is scandaUsed over the possible pertinence 
of Imogen's remark : — 

Do you call me fool? 

Imogen is not dismayed at the insult she is conceived 



CYMBELINE II. Ill 5 1 

to have uttered against the heir apparent to her 
throne. She will not budge an inch : — 

As / am mad, I do. 

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; 

That cures us both. 

Then comes a beautiful reaction. Having discharged 
herself of the long-sustained burden, and made her 
meaning respecting this wife-wooer plain to Cloten, 
Imogen experiences a most lively concern at having 
been forced to speak her mind. ' I am much sorry, 
sir, you put me to forget the manners of a lady 
by meddling with words that cause unpleasant feel- 
ings ; ' — 

and learn now, for all, 
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, 
By the very truth of it, / care not for you. 
And am so near the lack of charity — 
To accuse myself — I hate you; which I had rather 
You felt than make 't my boast. 

Did ever a badgered and pestered and persecuted 
woman show such consideration before to a Cloten 
boor .-" She wants everything understood, and is 
anxious even to make her tormentor know that, were 
her antipathy less acute, she would tell him so. 

This is an important point in the play. Cloten is 
the heavy villain of the piece, and for dramatic and 
other reasons is to be cut off by a violent „, , 

J Cloten, the 

death. That this may by tolerated by the heavy vii- 
audience, and without protest, he must have j^^^qJ^j^ ^ 
in some way forfeited its patience and violent 
charity in an extreme degree. This he is to ^^' ' 
do because of the beastly revenge that he shall plot 



52 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

against Imogen. That he may determine upon a 
revenge of this sort, he must have a grievance. That 
grievance will be furnished now. Imogen's unspar- 
ing literalness and * verbalness ' of speech has exas- 
perated Cloten. He feels himself virtually the ruler 
of the kingdom, and his conceit, as we have seen, is 
boundless. He must needs now, in retort, attack 
Posthumus. He even ventures to insinuate to Imogen 
that the marriage which she pretends to with her hus- 
band is no more binding than the union of serfs, — a 
knot that ties itself, without priestly warrant or bless- 
ing. The answer he gets is scathing and 
heroine pitilcss. The author has not made his hero- 
piannedfor jj^g ^q havc been importuned for weeks and 

this trial. , ^ 

weeks by a despicable stepmother, and to be 
harassed here, with nerves weakened by loss of sleep, 
and especially by present vexation over her missing 
bracelet, for nothing. Yet, to speak more justly, he has 
made such an Imogen from the start as could not be 
forced, except under the most irritating conditions, to 
utter anything capable of embittering a Cloten. 
When we have added that Shakespeare has also 
created Cloten such as he is on purpose to evoke the 
answer (11. 1 29-141) he now gets, the whole is said : — 

Profane fellow ! 
Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more 
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base 
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, 
Even to the point of e^tvy, if 't were made 
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd 
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated 
For being preferred so well. 



CYMBELINE II. in 53 

Cloten. The south-fog rot him ! 

Imogen. He never can meet with more mischance than come 
To be but nam'' d of thee. His f>ieanest garment 
That ever hath but clipped his body, is dearer 
In my respect than all the hairs above thee, 
Were they all made such men. 

Here Imogen, aroused as we shall never see her 
aroused again in the play, considers the interview 
with her wooer ended. Pisanio enters, and is ad- 
dressed, wholly as if Cloten were not present, with 
reference (11. 144-153) to being 'sprited by a fool,' 
and to the bracelet : — 

it was thy master's ; 'shrew me 
If I would lose it for a revenue 
Of any king's in Europe. I do think 
I saw 't this morning ; confident I am 
Last night 't was on my arm : I kiss'd it. 
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord 
That I kiss aught but he. 

Cloten hangs about, not reahsing yet how deeply the 
shafts have pierced : — 

You have abus'd me. 
His meanest garment ! 

Imogen. Ay, I said so, sir. 

If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't. 

Cloten's imbecile and spoiled-boy whine is unmistak- 
able, ' I will inform your father.' Imogen is so 
consummately illumined concerning his unmanliness, 
and so immeasurably disgusted touching everything 
of him and his, that she cannot but retort, — V 
Your mother, too. 

Of course the situation has dramatic potency in the 
circumstances that Cloten will not go, but forces Imo- 



54 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

gen to leave him yet standing where he has received 
his hurt. 

But Imogen ! Where was woman more sorely tried, 
and when more grand in dignity and strength ? Her 
blood is wholly under mastery, her ladylike repose 
has been scarcely ruffled. And she will apparently 
not be conscious, when all is over, of having suffered 
any strain. 

SCENE IV 

Of course lachimo is speeding back, as fast as sails 
can carry him, to Italy and Posthumus; and thither 
with painful forebodings we follow him. The scene 
opens again at Philario's house, where we find the 
host expressing to Posthumus somewhat of his con- 
cern lest lachimo win the wager. Posthumus asserts 
again, in his unsophisticated innocence of Italian 
treachery, his confidence in Imogen's womanly and 
wifely integrity : — 

Fear it not, sir, I would I were so sure 
To win the King as I am bold her honour 
Will remain hers. 

' By the way,' ventures Philario, ' what measures are 
you taking to concihate the King .'' ' Posthumus ad- 
mits that he is merely waiting. Does he 
hTs°toid i^ot know what the Queen is doing .-' Can- 
Posthu- not he divine what Imogen is enduring for 

mus noth- , . , , -^t • i 77- 1 

ing. his sake i No, certamly ; and Imogen has 

not told him. No whit will she embitter his 

exile with her new troubles. She is living loyally a 

grand, true life, and she does not grudge the sorrow 



CYMBELINE II. iv 55 

it has enforced. She would not Hve less large and 
true at whatever cost of pain. 

lachimo appears. The presence of this man, fresh 
from the divine Imogen, makes the young husband's 
heart dance with pride. We easily pardon Posthumus 
(11. 30, 31) his note of challenge: — 

I hope the briefness of your answer made 
The speediness of your return. 

lachimo gives Posthumus the letters written by Imo- 
gen that night the trunk was by her side. Breaking 
the seals, Posthumus runs through them provisionally. 
There is the reference to lachimo's visit ; there are 
the usual pages of affection and devotion. Posthumus 
puts the missives aside for more intimate perusal. 

All is well yet. — 
Sparkless this stone as it was wont? Or is 't not 
Too dull for your good wearing? 

Posthumus has a right, an infinite, blessed right to 
say this, as we know ; and his fate will be none the 
worse for the gird at what he feels sure is lachimo's 
his adversary's defeat. lachimo has too strategy. 
stern business in hand to care for Posthumus's enthu- 
siasm. He must administer his evidence in such a 
way as to keep Posthumus from divining its falseness. 
He will give it at first grudgingly, as if he were violat- 
ing confidence. After he has made his victim believe 
there is nothing really to tell, he will overwhelm him 
with the bracelet and the secret mark, and make him 
lose his head. All the while he will insolently, as his 



56 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

bride's charmer and repudiator, patronise the hus- 
band. All this, which would perhaps have failed 
with an Italian lover, easily fools Posthumus. lach- 
imo awkwardly (11. 100-104) overreaches himself, yet 
his victim does not see : — 

Sir — I thank her — that. 
She stripp'd it from her arm. I see her yet : 
Her pretty action did outsell her gift, 
And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it tne, and said 
She priz'dii once. 

To one who has discerned the lowest significance 
of Imogen's nature, this is most preposterous. The 
Imogen story provcs too much, infinitely too much, 
would have gy|- poor Posthumus, already stung through 

cherished i i i xt • i 

always the and through by the JNessus poison, has no 
bracelet. g^j^ from common sense. He admits to in- 
tellectual belief that his Imogen has, from infatuation, 
given away his bracelet to a stranger. Were she to 
have fallen to the lowest levels of her sex, she would 
have clung at least to that. Besides, she could never 
have been hypnotised into saying or implying that 
she had prized it ojice, — as if she found herself in 
wonderment that she could have ever in the least 
cared for such a man as Posthumus. 

SCENE V 

Is not the preceding scene enough .-' Why should 
there be another .-• 

Let us not be scandalised at the indelicacy of what 
is here set down. Shakespeare was at such pains to 
say his meanings in a refined and knightly way that 



CYMBELINE II. v 57 

he could never have dreamed of seemmg offensive 
to anybody. The bishops and indeed great ^j^^ 
ladies of his day did not express them- change in 
selves upon like matters in more guarded gh^ke-"'^^ 
language. The plot requires that Posthu- speare's 
mus proceed against the Hfe of Imogen ; and """' 
that he may proceed we must know the motives, and 
the secret thoughts and knowledge that make up the 
motives, of his resolution. In the last scene he is 
shown as despising, repudiating, loathing his bride. 
Maddened by the insolent gibes of lachimo, and from 
personal humiliation, he is prompted for the moment 
to some sort of vengeance for the injury to his affec- 
tions. But Posthumus is not, as the world goes, or 
went, in those days, selfish ; otherwise he would have 
basely and brutally executed his first impulse (iv. 147- 
149) for revenge. He feels now but the need of pun- 
ishment for her. He has read her letters, „, 

' The mis- 

fuU of her affection, and of prayers for his chief of the 
safe return ; he remembers her beautiful face, ^"'^'^^' 
with its expression of serene and patient fidelity, and 
he is horrified by it all. If she had not written ! If 
she had been content not to assume such delicacy and 
modesty and devotion, he would not have cared so 
much. But one so exquisitely false, who can counter- 
feit goodness so consummately, is surely unfit to live. 
To punish her because she has wronged society, be- 
cause she is its one chief outlaw, because she may 
wreck other lives — this, if he could have analysed 
his feelings, would have been the motive of the course 
proposed. Othello, a much greater sufferer because 



58 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

a stronger mind, in a like moment had said (V. ii. 6) 
of Desdemona, — 

Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. 
Act III 

SCENE I 

The clock of the plot moves backward ; we are 
again at the day of the serenade. The Queen, Cloten, 
The King's ^^'^ Cymbcline have prepared for audience, 
policy and, with the court, are entered in state to 
Rome receive Lucius and his train. The King is 
shaped by suffered by his wife and her son, who control 
e gueen. j^.^ policy, to Say the opening words ; but 
even these, in their curtness and in their lack of 
greeting and formality, seem filled with the animus 
of petticoat rule : — 

Now say, what would Augustus Csesar with us ? 

The answer of Lucius is stately and Romanesque. 
As a succinct statement of the reasons of his being 
where he is, and of the illogical predicament in which 
Britain finds itself, it is a model. It would seem that 
even the Queen and Cloten could have scarcely failed 
to catch the lofty tone of this utterance, and would 
have left the task of making a rejoinder to wiser 
minds. But the Queen cannot suppress (11. lo, ii) 
her vixenish temper even in moments of state : — 

And, to kill the marvel, 
Shall be so ever. 

The imperial ambassador is bound of course to 
ignore such an utterance as this, and is not again 



CYMBELINE III. i 59 

heard from for fifty lines. Cloten breaks the silence, 
and speaks the best paragraph that we have yet had 
from him in the play. There is silence again ; and 
the Queen begins perhaps to reahse the situation. In 
a changed spirit she essays argument, though she 
does not think well to address much of it to the 
ambassador. Cloten follows with a characteristic 
deliverance, in bald prose, which calls forth a sort of 
domestic protest from the King, To this, however, 
Cloten pays not the slightest attention. After he has 
said his utmost say, and published, by dialect and 
manner, his intellectual vulgarity, Cymbeline ventures 
(11. 47-54) a milder explanation of the present 
policy : — 

You must know, 
Till the injurious Romans did extort 
This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition, 
Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch 
The sides o' the world, against all colour here 
Did put the yoke upon 's; which to shake off 
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon 
Ourselves to be. 

This reminds us of the Queen's talk, and Cloten 
assents to it as if it were a deliverance of his dam. 
CymbeHne next, after apparently a little 
waiting, formulates his reply. It is kingly logue 
and noble, though scarcely strong. Now g^ows 
that the real sovereign of Britain has spoken, 
while parvenu voices are effectually stilled, Rome 
voices her dread decree. So the scene is hfted to 
the true plane of princely intercourse. There is 
but one further jarring note, while Cloten, with the 



6o WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

informality of a hostler of the King's stables, attempts 
to enlarge the hospitality of the court. 

This scene introduces new action. Italy and 
Britain are to be drawn together in a war ; and this 
will in some way bring home Posthumus. It is a 
mad step, which Shakespeare, in fixing the character 
of the King's household, was obliged to prepare for 
early. Neither the Queen nor Cloten has the slightest 
conception of the power that they are defying. 

SCENE n 

The feelings of horror, and indignation, and wounded 
affection, which we saw at riot in poor Posthumus, 
as the last act closed, have expressed themselves 
in action. Letters have come from Italy to Pisanio. 
The one from his master to himself, this servant has 
stopped, in his eagerness, to break seal and read 
before deUvering its companion missive to his mis- 
tress. The scene opens with Pisanio's consequent 
ejaculations of amazement. The notion of Imogen, 
who undergoes daily torture for constancy, unfaith- 
ful ; the thought of the chivalrous gentleman whom 
all the court have loved to call Leonatus, the lion- 
natured, pretending to have evidence against his 
bride ; the command to put Imogen, a princess, to 
death, without public understanding, really by mur- 
der, — these things upset Pisanio's staid and well- 
ordered disposition. He is angry (11. 15-17) that his 
master assumes him capable of such a commis- 
sion : — 



CYMBELINE III. ii 6 1 

How look I, 
That I should seem to lack humanity 
So much as this fact comes to? 

Posthumus is no paragon of manliness ; of that we 
have had evidence before. We are not surprised that 
he proposes to pursue his revenge by indirections : — 

Do 't : the letter 
That I have sent her, by her own command 
Shall give thee opportunity. 

We are glad not to hear the further contents of this 
letter. The one to Imogen, which lies beside it, all- 
loving no doubt, is then couched in terms that will 
mislead her, and put her in his servant's power. No 
wonder he is tempted to withhold, perhaps indeed 
destroy, the 'fedary for this act that looks so inno- 
cent without.' 

Imogen is not long in coming to the summons ; 
and, shame of shames, she is in high spirits this morn- 
ing. When Pisanio demurely hands over to her the 
letter, she archly takes him to task for claiming Pos- 
thumus to himself : — 

Who? Thy lord? That is my lord, Leonaius ! 

Glancing at the superscription, to make sure, before 
she opens, that it is her husband's hand, she delays 
that she may exhaust the joys of anticipation. This 
is the red-letter day of many weeks of watching. 
She stops even to voice to the gods her wish as to 
the message. Then, as she breaks the seals, her 
aroused mind comments realisingly upon the wax, 
how otherwise it could be used ; for always must she 



62 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

pursue a text like this to its remainders. Then she 
runs quick through the contents to see that all is 
well. Assured that there is no ill news, she reads it 
(11. 40-49) aloud to Pisanio in detail : — 

Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take 
me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as 
you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew 
me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cam- 
bria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will 
out of this advise yon, follow. 

So Posthumus assumes his wife's affection for 
himself, iust as of old, in this plan to destroy 

Posthumus ' ■' ... 

assumes her life. He has taken pams to be enig- 
his wife's matic, apparently for conscience' sake, yet 
he affirms his love. Of course there can be 
but one effect of such a letter : — 

O, for a horse with wings ! 

Pisanio shows no enthusiasm at the news, and is 
undoubtedly much dismayed lest he betray the real 
state of his feehngs about the letter. Imogen thinks 
him merely slow : — 

nearest thou, Pisanio ? 
He is at Milford Haven ! 

Her excitement is nafve and beautiful, yet not one 
jot beyond control. She would fain pet her serving- 
man, that he may speak his counsels thickly, and 
thus estop, for her, the sense of lapsing time. How 
far it is to Milford, and how Wales ever became so 
happy as to inherit the haven where her husband 
has landed, and how they may steal away, how 



CYMBELINE III. ii 63 

explain their return and absence, — all these items 
press upon her mind. She knows how fast men 
ordinarily ride, but it seems to her that there should 
be means of covering even several scores of miles 
'twixt hour and hour. 

Pisanio, under other circumstances, would aid her ; 
he cannot assist the horrible delusion. So, after the 
few minutes of ebullition, she discards in advance all 
his advice, with (11. 75-79) her mind made up : — 

But this is foolery. 
Go bid my woman feign a sickness, say 
She'll home to her father; and provide me presently 
A riding suit, no costlier than would fit 
A franklin's housewife. 

Pisanio is not much inclined to stir, and even hints 
that he is not at all of her mind. Then he gets his 
orders : — 

Away, I prithee. 
Do as / bid thee. There is no more to say. 

So this domestic noblewoman, who would not have 
thought of running away when the play opens, is 
unconsciously ready for such a step. Now that 
Posthumus, after these months of absence, has come 
to see her, and calls for her, she will go to him. 
Thus, too, has the author invented means, and skil- 
fully enough, of bringing Imogen away from her 
father's court. 



64 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

SCENE III 

The scene shifts to Wales, whither the author 
makes us precede Imogen and Pisanio. It is an un- 
broken wilderness, and the trees on the rocky slopes 
shine in the morning dew. From the mouth of a 
cave over against us three figures, new to the play, 
emerge. They are evidently mountaineers, though 
^, they do not wear mean clothing. The first 

The court- ■' ... 

ier moun- to appear is a man past middle life, with 
tameers. Xon^ white beard. The two young men 
who, stooping under the low entrance, follow him 
are twenty years old and upwards. We note at 
once the singular refinement and strength in the 
speech of these cave-dwellers. They should be 
men of action, but they seem scholars, philosophers. 
The fatherly figure, Belarius, is unwilling surely to 
let slip an opportunity of drawing moral lessons : — 

Consider, 
When you above perceive me like a crow, 
That it is place which lessens and sets off. 

Belarius has evidently seen the world, while his 
two wards have not. This soon comes out unequivo- 
cally in the dialogue. Belarius has lived somewhere 
at court, undoubtedly then at Cymbeline's ; the lads 
have never winged from view of their cavern nest. 
Guiderius repines at the inaction of the life they lead, 
but implies that there is something that keeps them 
from attempting the larger walks without. Arvira- 
gus too speaks as if he and his companion expected 
to grow old like their keeper in this cave. 



CYMBELINE III. iv 6$ 

It becomes evident that the author is making these 
characters talk thus for our benefit. It is scarcely- 
probable that Belarius would tell his wards his story 
on this particular morning of all the year. shake- 
But Shakespeare is not taking pains in this speare 

, , , . 1 ,. . , . , takes pains 

play except when he is dealmg with its hero- only with 
ine. He makes Belarius tell us enough of ^'s heroine. 
his past to establish connection with the preceding 
part of the drama, and then sends the boys away 
that he may impart needful information ^ ^^^_ 
concerning them. They prove to be the line's Latin 
sons of CymbeUne, Guiderius being elder ^^ "' 
and heir to the crown. This revelation was prepared 
for in the opening dialogue (I. i. 57-61) of the play. 
Even the name of the nurse, Euriphile, who stole the 
princes, is worked in. It seems that Cymbeline, who 
had lived at Rome, and whom Augustus admitted to 
knighthood, affected southern tastes, and gave his 
sons Latin names. Belarius, intolerant of such de- 
generacy, has exchanged these, as also his own name, 
for supposed Celtic ones. Shakespeare apparently 
was not aware that ' Polydore ' was derived from 
Greek, He certainly knew some Latin, yet not 
enough to remember that the name of his hero must 
be accented on the first and not the second syllable. 

SCENE IV 

Imogen and Pisanio have ridden across Britain, two 
hundred miles more or less, and they are now almost 
in sight of Milford harbour. We know from Imogen's 
first words that Pisanio has revealed nothing. We 



66 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

can guess that she has been so overjoyed at the pros- 
pect of seeing her husband, and so delectably impe- 
rious in hurrying her companion forward, that he has 
not had the heart to tell her that it is all a hoax. So 
far Posthumus's plot has succeeded well, at least for 
the play ; Imogen has been drawn away from the 
court by her husband's lure. There are reasons, we 
may suspect, why the author needs to have Imogen 
out of the capital, and perhaps in the wilderness, at 
this time. 

Pisanio, when Imogen turns toward him, shows 
deep trouble on his face. At once she infers that 
harm has come to Posthumus, that he is not here : — 

Pisanio ! man ! 
Where is Posthumus ? 

Pisanio does not expect such summary calling to ac- 
count. He is speechless, and looks fixedly before 
him. Imogen's anxiety increases ; she asks him why 
he stares. He is accustomed to obedience, but he 
cannot bring himself to answer anything. He sighs, 
Imogen's ^ud Imogen begs him to put himself into a 
dismay. haviour of Icss fear, or she shall lose her 
mind. There is silence yet, and she importunes him 
once more to declare what makes his agitation. He 
can do nothing but give her the letter, the second of 
the two (III. ii. 17-19) letters, — if there were two, 
in which his master has ordained the killing. 

Imogen, seeing the address in her husband's hand, 
and feehng herself unequal to sustaining the calamity 
that she is sure has befallen him, if she reads of it 



CYMBELINE III. iv 6/ 

herself, prays Pisanio to break it to her gently. Pi- 
sanio implies that it is not she but himself whom the 
letter concerns mainly, and at this she reads it aloud. 
Thus the author, who wishes us to hear it in detail, 
saves Pisanio from making known the indictment, 
which it contains, to his mistress's ears. 

Well, what has happened .■• There is no swoon or out- 
cry ; there is but silence, and the pathetic collapse of 
an endeavour to respond to her husband's call. There 
is but httle, even, of indignation. Instead of Posthu- 
mus dead, or in extremity, from the King's officers, 
in Wales, it is herself who is wounded, pursued, for- 
lorn. In perfect self-possession she realises j^^ j^ 
to herself the contradiction of her constancy, cannot 
and this casting-off. She can reach no least ^j.yj^_^ 
suspicion of the reasons ; she remembers 
lachimo, but her woman's intuition finds in him no clew. 

She theorises, of course, but wildly, — as if Pos- 
thumus, fallen from his integrity, should wish to 
destroy her for being true. And just as he, behev- 
ing her false, has repudiated all her sex, so she, for 
the moment, persuades herself that all good-seeming 
in men is counterfeit, put on to inveigle ladies. 

But Imogen, for all her scorn, does not rail against 
Posthumus for his low birth ; she does not remember 
it indeed against him. Her devotion, even , 

° _ Imogen 

at this moment, is sublime. Just as Desde- does not 
mona accep'ted death from her husband's p^sthu-^ 
hands, without calling for rescue, so she mus's low 
here, drawing Pisanio's sword, pleads for the "^ ' 
stroke. There is nothing to live for now. Pisanio 



68 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

flings his rapier deep into the forest, to show her how 
he regards her husband's order. But she assumes 
still that it will be obeyed, and prepares her bosom 
for Pisanio's dagger. She finds something, for- 
gotten for the moment, before her heart, — the letter 
of Posthumus which has allured her away from all 
protection to this doom. She throws away this 
letter, which later Pisanio takes up. She is calm 
now : — 

And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up 
My disobedience 'gainst the King my father, 
And make me put into contempt the suits 
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find 
It is no act of common passage, but 
A strain of rareness. 

She feels no jealousy, but grieves to think how Pos- 
thumus will one day regret and suffer. 

But this scene is not a study of Imogen ; all that 
has thus far happened is of course. The author's 
imoeen purpose is mainly to advance the plot. In 
willing to a few minutes of further dialogue, Imogen 
go to tay. ]3g|-]^jj^j^g herself that there can be no return, 
now, to the court. Pisanio is made, moreover, to 
have divined that his mistress could be induced 
after the revelation just made to go in disguise to 
Italy and find out the truth. The rest of the scene 
is devoted to the evolution of this turn. First, Pi- 
sanio proposes to report her as murdered to her hus- 
band. He then brings her to the thought of exile, 
and after ' of treading a course pretty and full of 
view ' : — 



CYMBELINE III. v 69 

yea, haply, near 
The residence of Posthumus, — so nigh at least 
That though his actions were not visible, yet 
Report should render him hourly to your ear 
As truly as he moves. 

Perhaps Pisanio was really acute enough to govern 
Imogen's motives thus ; but we suspect Shakespeare 
is hastening to his conclusion, and, by 
poetic liberty, enlarging Pisanio to fit the speare 
need. With the new-aroused desire in his crowds the 
mistress to see Posthumus, he will overweigh 
her scruples against the page's clothes. These — 
sword, doublet, hat, hose, all that answer to them — 
he has in fulness of faith provided and brought into 
the wilderness with him. He needs beyond but to 
steady the plan with the suggestion of service in 
Lucius's train, and to commit to his mistress's hands 
the panacea that he had some months back from the 
Queen. He will not wait to escort his charge all the 
way to Milford town ; he will but show her a view of 
it from the nearest hill. Time urges ; and he would 
but run the risk of identification, by the King's offi- 
cers, should he venture nearer. 

SCENE V 

The ambassador Lucius has been pleasantly 
entertained, and delays departure. Pisanio has 
returned, and finds him not yet set out. 

■' Lucms will 

This will bring disappointment, and, we fear, not reach 
hardship, to the princess who has been left ^^''^o^d 

^ ^ Haven to- 

in Wales. At last Lucius is ready, and morrow. 



70 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

takes leave of Cymbeline. The Queen shrewishly 
twits the King of slowness, — 

'tis not sleepy business, — 

but he responds with an answer of high-bred mild- 
ness. Then the father recalls that Imogen ' has not 
appeared before the Roman, nor tendered a daugh- 
ter's duty.' He will have her called sternly to 
account. But the Queen interposes, — 

Beseech your majesty, 
Forbear sharp speeches to her. 

The Queen knows that the King really loves Imo- 
gen, and that harshness, such as proposed, may end 
in a reconciliation. The report now comes that the 
princess's doors are locked, and that she has not 
been seen of late. The King hurries out to find his 
daughter; and the Queen, to be sure of what shall 
happen between them, sends Cloten after. She is 
convinced that Imogen is either dead of ' despair ' 
or fled. She does not, we notice, think evil of her 
prisoner for running away, or rail at her for being a 
hypocrite or violating the implied parole. 

The author begins next the important business of 
getting Cloten to follow Imogen to Milford Haven. 
Cloten is made to mention the revenge again 
must follow to us, lest we forget, for the moment, about 
Imogen. j^jg grievance. Pisanio, just at this juncture, 
happens in. Cloten considers him {cf. 1. 54 above) 
an old man, and presumably out of practice with the 
rapier, so pursues him threateningly with his own 
weapon drawn. The result is that Pisanio finds no 



CYMBELINE III. v 7 1 

better expedient than to give over the letter of Pos- 
thumus, which has called Imogen away, and which, 
spurned by her, he has just brought back from the 
wilderness. This pleases Cloten, and makes him 
think that Pisanio is ready, at last, to change mas- 
ters. Rather strangely, Pisanio consents to enter 
Cloten's service. He probably understands that, 
with Imogen gone from court, and reunited to her 
husband, it will be well to have a patron, and one 
belonging to the King's party. The real necessity, 
however, for this transfer of allegiance, as we soon 
see, lies in the plot. For some reason, later to be 
known, the piece requires that Cloten should 

. , . , Why Pisa- 

come mto possession oi certam garments be- nio made 

longing to Posthumus. To secure these for '" change 

/—I T • • r 1 masters. 

Cloten, accordmg to the verities of the case, 

the author must use Pisanio's aid. And, after all, 

Pisano's spirit is not much different from what might 

be expected in one accustomed to service in kings' 

houses. 

Cloten, as we have divined, is to be sacrificed ; so 
the author beats about for means that will enforce 
our consent to that part of his purpose. 

TT • • 1 • 1 r 1 • The use of 

He IS not very considerate certainly of this the assault 
character ; he might have made it less re- ™ ^^^ ^""^^ 

scene. 

volting. We now see why Cloten was made 
to draw upon Posthumus in the first scene. It makes 
Cloten's present presumption, that he can easily disarm 
and kill Posthumus at Milford Haven, where he ex- 
pects to force him to a new encounter, credible. Pi- 
sanio now enters, with the clothing of his late master. 



72 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

which the author evidently intends to have us see, 
with reference probably to some later identification. 
Pisanio shows, by his deft evasion, — 

She can scarce be there yet, — 

how well he has learned, in his long years of service, 
to prevaricate squarely, yet avoid to conscience all 
the effect of lying. The scene ends with a word 
from Pisanio, to save us worry about our heroine's 
safety, and to show that he is still at heart all loyal 
to her and her husband. 

SCENE VI 

Imogen has found herself unable to reach the arm 
of the sea that Pisanio pointed out to her from the 
hill. She has wandered around and around, over her 
own tracks, thoroughly bewildered. She was worn 
out with court vexations and ennui before starting on 
the hurried jaunt that brought her here. The anguish 
since undergone, the hardship of two nights spent 
without protection in the wilderness, what with 
hunger and despair, have well-nigh exhausted her 
Imogen Strength and courage. She yet rallies, and 
confides tramps onward, when Posthumus comes to 

vet in 

Posthu- her mind. He has had such an influence 
™^^- upon her life that she believes instinctively 

in him still. Her reason has been persuaded against 
him ; her heart yet finds him true. 

So she stumbles upon the path leading to the cave 
that, a few hours back, we saw Belarius and her 
brothers leave. It seems clearly enough the hold 



CYMBELINE III. vi 73 

of savage folk. But she must have help, soon, even 
from savage folk, if she is to live. We know her 
business-like, matter-of-fact way of dealing with an 
emergency, — 

I were best not call ; I dare not call ; 

yet she sends her piping, treble voice, as stalwartly 
as she can, in challenge to the cave-keepers. For 
she is now, we must remember, clad in doublet and 
hose, the page ostensibly of some nobleman. So 
she calls as to mine host before an hostelry : — 

Ho ! who's here ? 

Then lowering her tones, she adds to herself : — 

If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, 
Take or lend. 

After challenging again, without response, she pre- 
pares at once to enter. There is plenty of flutter in 
the pulses, but that does not hinder. Remembering 
that she wears a sword, and that a man would draw 
it resolutely at such a moment, she pulls it falteringly, 
and with a smile at the absurdity of proposing to run 
down the occupants, out of the scabbard. Then she 
disappears within the cave. 

The author means to make clear to us that Guide- 
rius is the more active and martial of the brothers : — 

You, Polydore, have prov'd best vv'oodman, and 

Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I 

Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match. 

The talk of the hunters, as they approach the cave 
with their game, startles the quiet of the place ; but 
their guest within seems not to hear. Belarius, pre- 



74 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

paring to enter, a little afterward, sees the little 
fairy-like page, clad in court garments, and eating 
some portion as in famishment from the feast of 
yesterday. Belarius has seen no such grace and ele- 
gance for a score of years. Such beauty of face he 
has never seen at all, for no daughter had yet been 
born to Cymbeline when he fled into the wilderness 
with these boys. Imogen, hearing the voices, comes 
out from the cave. She has never in her life been a 
trespasser, or done a wrong to anybody ; and beauti- 
ful is her dismay when she finds, instead of savages, 
great-browed and noble-featured folk to reckon with. 
Forgetting her boldness and her sword, she throws 
Imogen, hcrself upon the mercy of these men with a 

tried, to simplicity and delicacy never bred in her by- 
bring out . -^ •' ■' 
her fine the Kmg's tutors. She is wholly fascinating 

nature. ^q |-]^g boys, and to ourselves. It is at once 

evident that Shakespeare has brought her away from 

the court to her brothers, that she may exhibit a more 

fundamental and complete queenliness than she could 

have achieved at home. What could be more ethe- 

realised, angelic, than this plea ? 

Good masters, harm me not ! 
Before I enter'd here, I caWd, and thought 
To have hegg'd ox bought what I have took. Good troth, 
I have stoVn nought, nor wottld not, though I had found 
CcA/strew'd i' the floor. Here's money for my meat. 
I would have left it on the board so soon 
As I had made my meal, and parted 
With prayers for the provider. 

The contempt of these royal lads for the gold that 
Imogen has taken from her purse, she mistakes for 



CYMBELINE III. vi 75 

anger. But there is no selfish insistence or self- 
assertion against it. Meaner minds sometimes affirm 
that the world owes them a living. This woman, who 
has forgotten that she is heir to the whole of Britain, 
would have starved rather than touch the food of 
these men, knowing that they would withhold con- 
sent. Here, Shakespeare would have us recognise, 
is a kingly scene, though not enacted within arras- 
covered walls. 

The boys are quite too absolute for this emergency; 
it is Belarius who turns the subject. There is nothing 
suspicious in her answer that she is bound for Milford 
Haven. Noblemen and noblemen's servants were 
passing to and from this seaport town continually. 
Then it is brought out that Imogen believes that, by 
her two days' delay, she has lost her chance of going 
to her husband. The ' kinsman ' of course is Lucius, 
whom for discretion she feels it best not to name: — 

I have a kinsman who 
Is bound for Italy. He embark'd at Milford; 
To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
I am fall'n in this offence. 

The open hint of hunger, which she has not made 
clear before, awakes Belarius to a better show of 
hospitality. The boys, who have for some 

. 1 ., 1 1 • • Arviragus 

tmie been silent, break out mto protestations has imagi- 
of enthusiasm. Guiderius is like his sister, nation; but 

Guidenus 

and would do offices for the beautiful guest, is like his 
— would woo hard but to be a groom. ^^^^"- 
Arviragus, on the contrary, has imagination, such 
as Imogen is unprovided with : — 



y6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

I'll make 't ;«_)/ comfort 
He is a man. I'll /ove him as my brother ; 
And such a welcome as I'ld give to him, 
After lo7ig absence, such '\% yours. Alost welcom.e ! 
Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. 

What a surprising change to the perplexed prin- 
cess ! These men are more refined and chivalrous 
than courtiers. Has Imogen ever seen such genuine- 
ness and simplicity before? At any rate, it is all 
utterly fascinating to her. She wrings her hands, as 
she realises how easily Posthumus might have been 
hers, if her rank had but been the same as theirs. 
That we may know more fully her indifference to 
privilege, and her power of appreciating worth in 
whatever humble guises, the author makes Bela- 
rius whisper to the boys, and thus enable Imogen to 
talk in an aside. She avers that the greatest men 
she has ever known, if reduced to courts no bigger 
than the cave, and forced to furnish service to them- 
selves, could not outpeer these twain. 

Pardon me, gods ! 
I'd change my sex to be companion to them. 
Since Leonatus 's false. 

She cannot but recur, at times, to Posthumus's revolt ; 
but she does not remember her resolve to hold all 
Shake- tnen false henceforth. And she would 
speare re- gladly live in companionship with men so 

fuses sight t-> i i • i i i i 

of the cav- truc. But the scene, which the author has 
em home. ^^^ hurried, is now wound up. Belarius 
begs that his page-guest come within. Imogen, who 
must always begin where she has left off, hesitates, 



CYMBELINE IV. i 77 

thinking of her trespass. But Guiderius pleads, and 
Arviragus supports him in an Apollo strain, — 

The night to the owl and morn to the lark less welcome. 

Imogen yields presently, and, ushered by the younger 
brother, enters. But Shakespeare keeps the interior 
of the cavern from our view. 

SCENE VII 

The object of this scene is mainly to show how 
lachimo will be brought into the British wars. 
Posthumus possibly may be drawn along, al- 

^1 1 1 1 1- 1 • • 1 /■ lachimo to 

though he has little interest now in the fate be brought 
of Cymbeline. To save the time of the plav, ^^ ^'^^ ^^"^ 

11 1 A • T to Britain. 

the author makes Augustus issue to Lucius 

his commission, and ordain the reenforcements from 

Italy, before Cymbeline's answer arrives from Britain. 

This is of course a license, but scarcely mars, when 

noted, the effect of the play. We should of course 

bear in mind that Shakespeare does not do such 

things in Lear or Othello, or like plays written with 

superior care. 

Act IV 

I 

SCENE I 

Cloten is shown here to have reached Wales, and 
to be in search of Imogen and Posthumus. We 
need this evidence before seeing him in a succeeding 
situation. He is made to give evidence of the old 
brutishness, and the old conceit, with the added 
presumption of immunity, through his mother, for 
his crimes. 



78 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

SCENE II 

It is again early morning. Belarius and his wards 
must go out, as is their habit, to the chase. Imogen, 
now that reHef and reaction have succeeded to the 
excitement of the last days, and to the strain of the 
weeks and months preceding, finds herself scarcely 
able to rise with the others. She shows her exhaus- 
tion in every feature. Belarius seems quickest to 
read this open secret; Arviragus is most ready and 
complete in sympathy. 

Brother, stay here. 
Are we not brothers ? 

Imogen, reminded in some way of court exclusive- 
ness, is inclined to be ironical. ' So man sJiould be ; 
but we must remember that some human clay is of 
inferior dignity, though its dust is as select as any.' 
Then she admits that she is very sick. That starts 
Guiderius up : — 

Qo you to hunting. I'll abide with him. 

Guiderius is accustomed, evidently, to have his way. 
Neither Belarius nor Arviragus gainsays. The idea 
of ado, because of her admission that she is not well, 
makes Imogen qualify. To her orderly mind, Guide- 
rius remaining at home will spoil for him, and perhaps 
the others, the whole day. ' The breach of custom 
is breach of all.' Besides, she considers herself prac- 
tically not so very sick after all, since she ' can talk 
about it.' She has not been spoiled, certainly, by 
petting. She begs to be left alone : — 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 79 

Pray you, trust me here. 
I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, 
Stealing so poorly. 

This is pure feminineness, though Imogen does 
not dream how ill she conceals her sex. Guiderius 
has never felt such charms before, and does not 
know how he is wrought upon, believing as he does 
that Imogen is a man. 

I love thee. I have spoke it; 
How much the quantity, the weight as much, 
As I do love my father. 

Belarius affects to be signally surprised, or shocked, 
but is really proud that the lad responds to noble in- 
fluences so nobly. Arviragus, with equal frankness, 
confesses to even deeper feeling. As he withdraws, 
bidding his new ' brother ' farewell, the sick Imogen 
does not fail to wish him sport, though he has forgot 
to wish her health. Belarius and Guiderius have 
set out for the hills already, though they walk but 
slowly and look back. The petite, trim figure is 
seen to totter slowly toward the cave, then disappear 
within. In the talk of the boys which follows we 
are made to know more definitely how their 

Arviragus 

sister has enchanted them. With Arviragus has come 
it is, naturally, her singing ; with Guiderius, "^^'■^'' ^^ 

' . -" o & ' 'his sister. 

her accomplishments and resources as a cook. 
But it is Arviragus who has approached closer to her 
confidence and sympathy. To him alone she (11. 41, 
42 above) has hinted she might tell something of her 
story. It is he who has divined the riddle of her 
face, its sorrow which she harbours but with protest, 



80 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

for she will not mope with friends, and the smile of 
kindhness by which she almost conquers it. Arvira- 
gus is also no mean interpreter of what he sees : — 

Nobly he yokes 
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh 
Was that it was, for not being such a smile. 

But Guiderius, in his matter-of-fact way, sees and 
says it very differently : — 

I do note 
That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
Mingle their spurs together. 

Cloten probably travelled all last night, to be surer 
of his prey. Breakfastless and weary, he has scur- 
ried about since dawn, and begins to realise that he 
has been duped. He stumbles upon the hunters, who 
are lingering yet over their talk. Belarius sounds the 
note of alarm, recognising Cloten, through twenty 
years, as son of the Queen. Guiderius, the youth of 
deeds, will not retreat, but sends his Apollo brother 
and their guardian away. To evolve the quarrel 
that shall rid Imogen of her persecutor, occupies 
the author but a few lines. He calls our atten- 
tion again, through Cloten, to Posthumus's clothing, 
„ . , . in which the hero was first shown to us. 

(juiderius 

has no Clotcn is half minded to be proud of being 
sword. attired so well ; for his rival's taste, we may 
be sure, is the best at court. Guiderius has no 
proper weapon to meet his adversary with, but drives 
him forth to bay fearlessly just the same. In a few 
moments he is returned, bearing the head of Cloten 
by its hair. This is much, of course, to force upon 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 8 1 

our sight ; but the author has need that it all be vis- 
ual. He has made a Cloten on purpose to endure 
decapitation, for reasons soon to appear. Of course 
the punishment is extreme, but the author has pre- 
pared for it doubly. We could scarcely have endured 
the plot, unless some one expiated the general guilt. 
There must be hurt to answer hurt. So, outside of 
his own villany and its issue, Cloten is made the 
scapegoat of the play. 

Belarius has hoped for some turn of fortune by 
which one of the boys should get the throne. The 
present business threatens to spoil all that. Arvira- 
gus (11. 156-159) chafes that he has been denied his 
share in the feat : — 

Polydore, 
I love thee brotherly, but envy much 
Thou has robb'd me of this deed. 

While Belarius waits for Guiderius's return, he 
sends Arviragus in advance to Fidele. This separa- 
tion is clearly for a purpose. As the others after 
some minutes follow, they hear the rude harp that 
Belarius once devised, left long since untouched, 
sounding. The chords are mournful. Belarius is 
scandalised : — 

My ingenious instrument ! 
Hark, Polydore, it sounds ! But what occasion 
Hath Cadwell noio to give it motion ? 

Splendidly dramatic is the effect of this slow, mourn- 
ful music from within the cave, while neither _, 

The dra- 

the means nor the occasion of the sounds is matic effect 
seen. Guiderius cannot of course explain, °.^ *^^ "'": 

^ ' sicsounded 

though he tries his wits sorely upon the in advance. 



82 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

case. Then comes something to view, which the 
old eyes of Belarius catch more quickly than Guide- 
rius's younger sight. It is Arviragus bending low 
to pass the cavern entrance, and stooping withal in 
tenderness over the body of his sister, carried in his 
arms. He brings her out before Belarius and his 
brother. 

The bird is dead 
That we have made so much on. I had rather 
Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, 
To have turn'd my leaping-time into a crutch, 
Than have seen this. 

The form of his sister lies close about Arviragus, 
her head against his shoulder. The sight starts the 
imagination of Guiderius, which never speaks but by 
the card : — 

O sweetest, fairest lily ! 
My brother wears thee not the one half so well 
As when thou grew'st thyself. 

Belarius, with an old man's slowness, has been pon- 
dering since yesterday the meaning of this visit, and 
has divined substantially (11. 206-208) of the truth. 

Thou blessed thing! * . 

Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, 
Thou diedst, a most rare boy of melancholy. 

Arviragus, in a very exalted state of fancy, tells how 
the body lay, * smiling as some fly had tickled the 
sleeper, his right cheek reposing on a cushion,' — 

o' the floor, 
His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put 
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness 
Answer'd my steps too loud. 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 83 

The author has caused Imogen to fall asleep with 
her arms * leagued ' or folded, across her bosom, to 
conceal her sex from the one who should lift her up. 
Arviragus is made to have put off his shoes to mark 
to us the degree of his fine thoughtfulness, not bred, 
but instinctive in his kingly blood. 

As their sorrow deepens, each of the brothers 
gives expression to what he has discerned in the 
beautiful youth now lying dead. Guiderius is wholly 
objective, as heretofore. He can best declare the 
beauty he has seen as something too spiritual to 
know corruption. Fairies will flock perforce about 
his burying-place, which will be a bed and not a 
grave. Arviragus, on the contrary, is subjective and 
etherealised wholly in his vision : — 

With fairest flowers 
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
The azur'd harebell, like thy veins, no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. The ruddock would. 
With charitable bill, — O bill, sore-shaming 
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
Without a monument, — bring thee all this, 
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, 
To winter-ground thy corse. 

The proof of imaginative delicacy is seen through- 
out, but best perhaps in the personification whom. 
It is the interpretation of a virile mind, though a 
woman's tenderness could not have made it sweeter. 
Guiderius cries out in protest, for there seem words 



84 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

and tears too many. Such a tribute is to him empty 
and unserious, in the face of the deeds, the offices 
that they delay : — 

Let us bury him, 
And 7iot protract with admiration what 
Is now debt due. 

Arviragus accedes ; but he finds himself immediately 
at a loss, as a child might, where the body should be 
„, , laid. Guiderius is immediate with his answer, 

speare's Arviragus, for his part, feels equal certitude 
c imaxes. concerning the obsequies : they must sing 
him to his resting-place, just as once Euriphile, their 
mother. But Guiderius cannot sing, he is sure, for 
tears ; and they agree not to attempt more than to 
say the words together. Thus the author rises tow- 
ard his climax, as always, by the simplest means: 
two youths, prevented from singing their funereal 
hymn, lest grief shall make them dumb, do not think 
to forego the tribute, but they will brokenly speak the 
lines. 

It would seem incongruous, perhaps, for Belarius 
to be present at the obsequies proposed, having no 
part ; and it would not probably be pleas- 
absent ing to us were he to assist. So Shakespeare 
from the contrivcs to have him gone. Of course this 

obsequies. , 

touching funeral might have been delayed 
until his return with Cloten's body ; but that would ' 
have spoiled the whole. Arviragus is the master of 
singing, as Guiderius is of the hunt ; yet he will have 
Guiderius begin. Thus the lads, taking up the body 
of Imogen, and advancing slowly to the measure of 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 85 

the lines recited, carry it toward its resting-place. 
There is no mention any more of burying ; that 
would have burdened us with infinite concern at this 
chief moment. The song has no mention of Fidele 
{cf. 1. 238 above) as we expect;^ hence we might 
suppose it not the one furnished originally by the 
author of the play. But it befits the rustic situation, 
and is wholly such as might have taken shape, in 
deep solitude, on the lips of boys philosophically 
inclined, as these are. The sentiments are all ge- 
neric, and by no means youthful. 

The moment of climax should be now, as the 
weeping youths begin to bear along the body slowly, 
to the measure of their chant. But we know The climax 
that their sister is not dead; hence the real of pathos, 
consummation of interest is to be postponed. Yet 
the delay incident to rendering the song, four six- 
line stanzas, affords time for the fullest arousement 
of imagination. We discern Imogen at her highest 
of womanly nobleness and power. Guiderius, who 
is Mars enough to have slain her enemy without a 
sword, is all in sobs because of his few hours' know- 
ledge of her mind. Arviragus, the prince-genius, 
feels more than a brother's love toward her, called 
forth by her unpretending sweetness and ministry. 
She has been faithful unto death, though she is yet 
not to die. She has moved us, as her death could 

^ The references, besides, are to ' lads and girls,' and ' lovers,' and 
not to any one of years. On the other hand, 'tyrant's stroke' and 
' frown o' the great ' suit the notion of a former use over the dead 
body of Euriphile. 



86 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

alone have moved us, by the beautiful singleness 
and completeness of her life. There have been no 
moods, no humours ; there has been no variableness 
or shadow of turning from an almost masculine jus- 
tice and integrity, yet in all womanliness and femi- 
nine devotion. 

As the hymn ended, Belarius appears bearing 
Cloten's body. Here is something unlooked for: 
the headless corpse of Cloten and Imogen are laid 
side by side. Flowers are strewed on both ; the old 
rj.. ,. man and the brothers retire softly, rever- 

The climax -' ' 

of the ently, upon their knees. What is to be the 
^*^^"^' issue ? It is to be the instant of climax. 

The drug has done its work ; Imogen rouses ex- 
citedly from her trance, all in struggle to reach Mil- 
ford Haven. Lying upon her face she is kept from 
seeing the body that rests beside. She sits erect, 
and tries to rise. But strength fails her ; her brain 
is yet too full of sleep. Before she again lies down 
she discerns the form that has been laid next hers. 
The flowers have hidden it hitherto, and she does 
not yet see that it is headless. This is a moment 
to have driven a mind less strong, insane. Slowly, 
but insistently, she works her way back to certitude. 

I /lope I dream, 
For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, 
And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis noi so. 

Good faith 
I tremble still with fear; but zy there 6e 
Yet left in heaven as stnall a drop ol pity 
As a wren^s eye, fear'd gods, a part of it ! 

She plucks away the flowers. It is a headless man ; 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 87 

and the garments are her husband's ! The objective- 
ness of her fancy makes her sure that the 
shape also is his. And then, horrified objective- 
almost to speechlessness, she sees in her "^^^ ^s^^" 

• i> 1 1 • r 1 11 misleads. 

mmd s eye the conclusion or the whole mat- 
ter. Pisanio and Cloten have conspired to cut him off, 
and she has been lured here to find him dead. Her 
imagination that cannot mount, but creeps, makes 
all this real to her. The dreadful spectacle of the 
bloody neck, as she turns her eyes once more to 
sight it surely, makes her flesh creep and her senses 
reel. She swoons, half embracingly, half shunningly, 
across the body. Cloten's baseness is transfigured 
for the moment through this mistake. 

The tramp of horses is plainly heard. This is not 
the British thoroughfare to Milford Haven, but a 
patch of glade apparently not far from it. 
The Roman lieutenant, only now landed ^.jt^ cio- 
from Gaul with Lucius's commission, find- ten, left 

, . . p_ , r near the 

mg his superior officer not yet returned from highroad 
Cymbeline, seems to have set out, with this ^° Miiford 

Haven. 

group of brother subalterns and the sooth- 
sayer, on the way to escort him in. The two parties 
have met but a little distance back, for the captain 
has not finished, to Lucius, his summary of the intel- 
ligence that waits him at the harbour. They are rid- 
ing just now in the glade, beside the beaten path, 
and happen thus upon Cloten's body. Imogen has 
come nearly to the end of her swoon ; and the cap- 
tain, who has dismounted to know whether the page 
be still alive, arouses her to her senses. She seem- 



88 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ingly does not recognise Lucius as the delayed em- 
bassador, whom she had hoped to accompany to 
Rome. Her self-possession comes back, and she 
works her plight into a consistent story, keeping 
back all reference to Cloten and Pisanio. In half a 
page of dialogue the imperial proconsul has offered 
service — Roman magnates were wont to set much 
store by beautiful boys — and she has not hesitated 
to accept. 

So Imogen's flight from court was to end in this. 
She has been brought here that we may receive the 
utmost of her influence. There can be no doubt of 
that. But what is to become of her ? Her husband 
is in Italy, and she, as we have probably divined, is 
to be restored to him. She believes that she has, 
beside her, his dead body. How can she think of 
leaving Britain, with Posthumus dead there and 
buried in its soil .'' Here seems at first a paradox, 
a contradiction. There is still the same infinite devo- 
tion, the old unfathomable instinct of service : — 

But first, an't please the gods, 
I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep 
As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when 
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave. 
And on it said a century of prayers, 
Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh, 
And leaving so his service, follow you. 
So please you entertain me. 

Yet it is indubitable that she is perfectly willing to 
go away. 

The artistic problem here is profound and intricate, 
and seems to have engaged the author early after the 



CYMBELINE IV. ii 89 

Opening of the play. Imogen, to be sure, does not 
leave Britain, but Shakespeare makes her resolve 
and expect to do so. There are indeed strong rea- 
sons, perhaps recognised by herself, why she should 
wish to go. If Posthumus has been true, and Cloten 
have bribed Pisanio to kill him, her safety 
evidently lies elsewhere. To escape the fears of fhe 
Queen and Cloten, she will accept the pro- Q^een and 
consul s orier. Yet we are sure, knowmg her 
nature as we have learned it, that she would have 
refused to budge foot from Britain, but would have 
stayed to keep and guard her husband's grave. Very 
evidently Shakespeare thought so too. He has had 
much ado to bring about, artistically and truthfully, 
the outcome that the plot demands. 

The effect upon affection of seeing the dead body 
of a beloved one crushed or disfigured has been 
often noticed. Even when there is vastly The infiu- 
less mutilation than Imogen believes that enceofdis- 

, rr 1 1 figurement 

her husband m this case has suffered, the upon affec- 
instinct of tender offices and devotion to the *^°"- 
memory of the deceased is well-nigh paralysed. Imo- 
gen, who never allowed Posthumus's bracelet to leave 
her arm, has no thought of strewing her husband's 
grave with flowers, save now at burial. She would 
have been aghast, undoubtedly, could her attention 
have been drawn specifically to this lack of feeling. 
Arviragus proposed, thinking his sister dead, to 
sweeten her sad grave so long as summers should 
succeed each other and find him living; and we 
know that he cannot outrival Imogen. So the de- 



90 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

vice of putting Posthumus's clothes on the victim, to 
compel Imogen's belief that her husband 
insuk^to^ was dead, and the whole idea of her insult 
cioten to Cloten touching his meanest garments, 
enable her ^nd of the proposcd revcngc, were woven 
free action j^to the plot oulv to enable her free action 

now. . 

now. The pomt illustrates well how con- 
scientiously a great artist works. An inferior author 
would have had her go away without a reason. 

The scene has been a long one, and must not offer 
further action. We shall not care to see Cloten laid 
away by the Roman soldiers in Welsh soil, and Imo- 
gen in further grief. Lucius will himself take part 
in the burial. After, we shall expect him, with Imo- 
gen in his protection, to attempt a more active role. 

SCENE ni 

Things have changed at the King's palace, whither 
the scene now shifts. Cymbeline is in some excite- 
ment, as the first line shows. His sending the 
attendant back with Again ! to the Queen's apart- 
ments, tells how incessantly and anxiously he has 
The Kin "s ^^^g^'^t ^o'' tidiugs. He is made to show us, 
lethargy in a parenthetical soliloquy, that his lethargy 
' ^ ■ is effectually lifted, and that he realises his 

resourceless plight, with the Queen, and Cloten, and 
Imogen, — the great part of his comfort now, no 
longer by. Pisanio gives evidence again of his 
expertness at equivocation, but incurs the debit of 
at least one fib. The First Lord's bad memory 
assists ; but for the assurance that ' the day she was 



CYMBELINE IV. iv 9 1 

missing he was here,' it might have gone hard with 
the smooth serving-man. The time is, apparently, 
two or three days after the last scene, for report of 
the arriving of the legions from Gaul has just come 
in. The Roman forces under Lucius are evidently 
waiting to be strengthened by the contingent of 
Italian gentry {cf. 11. 341, 342, of the last scene) 
before beginning the campaign. The statement, in 
the First Lord's advices, that (11. 25, 26) lachimo's 
forces are already landed, seems premature. 

In default of the usual counsellors, Cymbeline 
will probably restore the First Lord to his rightful 
post ; and in that case the British army will not 
wait to be attacked. Pisanio closes the scene with 
some discussion of his troubles. He finds (11. 41, 42) 
that he has lost standing somewhat with himself : — 

The heavens still must work. 
WTierein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. 

We note, at the beginning of his soliloquy, an in- 
stance of the author's resort to dramatic illusion. 
Of course there has been no such interval, 

T 1 r 1 r t^r 1 The illu- 

smce Imogen left the court for Wales, as sionofiong 
Pisanio is made here to imply ; but that fact '^p^^ °^ 

time. 

is not SO easily reahsed. Shakespeare is 

very deft and effectual in producing upon the audience 

or reader the effect of a long lapse of time. 

SCENE IV 

On account of lachimo's delay, the forces of Cym- 
beline will meet the enemy in Wales. The country 



92 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

about the cave is full of the comings and goings 
of British soldiery. Belarius and his wards 
imagUia^ must soon take sides, or be captured for 
tion carries bandit mountainecrs. The present scene 
details the steps by which all three are 
brought to join the army of the King. Belarius has 
small help from patriotism, and at first proposes to 
move higher up the mountains, until the victory is 
known. There are signs that the battle is even now 
beginning. Arviragus declares, in spite of his guar- 
dian's wishes, that he will share in the fight. The 
reasons that he recounts inflame Guiderius. Then 
Belarius, proud of the spirit in the lads, and sure that 
the issue will be glorious, bids them lead out : — 

The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn, 
Till it fly out and show them princes born. 



Act V 

SCENE I 

In the camp of the Italian gentry, not far from 
where Cloten lies, is shown Posthumus, taking from 
his bosom the handkerchief, sent by Pisanio, and 
stained, as he believes, with the blood of Imogen. 
Even since that token came, he has suffered torments 
„ , of remorse. His belief in lachimo's evidence 

Posthumus 

not a man persists, yet he is not convinced. Deep 
of vision. (jQYvn in his soul he feels that Imogen is 
true, or if not true, infinitely more worthy than him- 
self. He is not a man of vision, or, as we say, 
educated; he is not able to maintain his peace of 



CYMBELINE V. ii 93 

mind in spite of an lachimo's assaults upon his faith. 
He blames Pisanio for consenting to be the instru- 
ment of his wickedness. This British ground in 
which, as he assumes Imogen is buried, seems 
sacred. He will fight against the invaders of it, and 
most adventurously. 

So I'll die 

For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life 

Is every breath a death. 

That he may change sides without the knowledge 
of either party, who would recognise him equally, he 
will disguise himself as a common soldier. He is 
made to invest himself, in our sight, with some 
British peasant's dress that he has picked up, that 
we may identify him hereafter. True to his char- 
acter, he thinks this no inconsiderable condescension. 

To shame the guise o' the world, I will begin 
The fashion, less without and more within. 

It will probably never be clear to Posthumus that 
this fashion was set before his time, and that even 
his wife exemplifies it better than he will ever under- 
stand. Posthumus is prevailingly an outside man, as 
we have seen, though he is not vain or proud. 

SCENE II 

lachimo seemed to us, when he was securing to 
himself Posthumus's ring, wholly without conscience. 
We see now that he has a conscience, and , , . , 

' lachimo s 

that it has been active; and this return to active con- 
Britain increases its power upon him. As ^'^"^"'^^• 
the armies meet in their first skirmish, Posthumus 



94 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

seeks out lachimo, and disarms him. He is thus 
seen to cherish no gross hatred of lachimo for being 
the occasion of his woes. lachimo, could he have 
known with whom he fought, would not have ex- 
pected to be spared. 

The battle becomes general. That part of it which 
is enacted upon the stage shows the capture of King 
Cymbeline. From some spot of vantage this is seen 
by Belarius and the lads, who rush in and rally the 
disheartened Britons. Nothing comes of that until 
Posthumus, with the strength of the Leonati, joins 
them. Then Cymbeline is rescued and escorted away. 
So, somewhat crudely, it must be owned, Shake- 
speare has forced upon Posthumus a part that will 
redeem him with the King. In the general break-up 
we recognise the proconsul, urging Imogen to make 
good her escape from the place of fighting. It was 
not her lot to go away from Britain, and be saved 
new grief, for the war has come to her. Lucius has 
been tender of his page companion, as is clear. 

SCENE III 

Posthumus and his comrades have managed, after 
the rescue of Cymbeline and the general retreat of 
the invaders, to withdraw and mingle among the 
British soldiery unnoticed. The excitement of vic- 
tory is yet too strong to admit of search or inquiry 
as to their whereabouts. Posthumus has slipped 
from his nobleman's suit the coarse peasant's frock 
which enveloped and disguised him during the fight. 
He is presented to us in conversation with a British 



CYMBELINE V. iv 95 

lord, by way of whom he is made to explain the 
battle more in detail. The resources of 

The an- 

Shakespeare's stage did not admit of enact- dent forti- 
ing more than the merest suggestion of the ^'^^"°"^- 
rally and the rout. It now comes out that Belarius 
and the youths had taken post by some old military 
works, formed, as it would seem, by trenching the 
ground and piling up walls of turf. Thus they find 
themselves in control of a sort of lane or pass, at the 
head of which four warriors might bar the passage 
of a considerable force. Posthumus makes no men- 
tion of himself as the fourth champion, and the 
British lord grows incredulous and apathetic. This 
puts Posthumus out of the best part of his patience. 
The dialogue ends abruptly, affording Posthumus the 
chance to tell us how he has sought death, vainly, 
but is determined not to survive the day. Two 
British officers appear, with soldiers, and Posthumus 
is seized and borne away, as we hear proposed, to 
Cymbeline. 

SCENE IV 

Posthumus is in the way of being speedily recon- 
ciled to the King. There remains to the play but 
his penance and his reconciliation with Imogen. 
With the penance Shakespeare at once proceeds. 
Posthumus accepts the prospect of execution, and 
falls asleep speaking to his dead Imogen. 

After Posthumus's soliloquy, we come upon matter 
which is found in the Folio or earliest edition of the 
play, but can scarcely be considered Shakespeare's. 



96 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

We pass to the point (1. 152) where Posthumus is 
waked by his keepers, as the earUest paragraph 
which seems to show Shakespeare's hand. By the 
dialogue here, which pretty fully incorporates the 
element of time, Posthumus is adjusted to what we 
Posthumus accept dramatically as his fate, and ex- 
achieves piates his errors. Similarly as with Imogen, 
uai effect of when her brothers buried her, there is 
dying. achieved all the spiritual effect of dying, 

while the death is spared. After this conversation 
with the Gaoler, a messenger brings orders to unfetter 
the prisoner, and bring him into the presence of the 
King. We know from this that the last situation of 
the play is about to be opened for us. Posthumus 
notes the dejected air of the Gaoler, and divines that 
he will not be executed after all. This he calls " good 
news" ; so we know that he is content to live. 

SCENE V 

It is well to study the stage directions at the open- 
ing of Shakespeare's scenes. They often tell us as 
much as the after lines. Here, next the 
speare's pcrsou of the King, stand our old friends of 
stage direc- ^-j^g cave, outranking the lords and officers 

tions. ° 

of the realm. This means that at last the 
stayers of the flight are found, and have place by 
the King as the heroes of the hour. 

Cornelius and certain court ladies now introduce 
themselves. It is a hard jaunt, across Britain to the 
camp of Cymbeline, for women of their sort. But the 
author needs them, or will soon need them, as sup- 



CYMBELINE V. v 97 

port to Imogen. Shakespeare is delicately consider- 
ate of the proprieties, and will not have why court 
his heroine presented to us here in the com- '^'^"^^ 

'■ brought to 

pany of men alone. The subterfuge under the Kings 
which he brings the court dames hither, ^^'"P- 
women doubtless much older than Imogen, is to have 
them bear out the testimony of Cornelius. Cymbe- 
line affirms that he has never guessed or suspected 
the baseness of the Queen. There is surely httle of 
the Arviragus penetration in him. 

At this point Lucius and lachimo, and other chief 
Roman prisoners, are brought forward. Posthumus 
follows this guarded company ; and after these, and 
him, at a significant interval, comes Imogen in her 
page disguises. She has not heard Cornelius tell 
of the Queen's death, and does not know how her 
father's heart is altered. Here she stands in, we may 
be sure, a beautiful new perturbation. Her cave 
friends and Pisanio are in honour next the King, 
while Cloten is nowhere in view. Posthumus, clothed 
in ' Italian weeds,' is not yet confidently recognised 
as her husband. All her beliefs and theories are in 
confusion. 

The King immediately, without circumstance or 
formahty — there is as little of the monarch in Cym- 
beline as of the princess in his daughter — addresses 
Lucius. There is a hint (1. 69) of sarcasm in his 
first words : — 

Thou com'st not, Caius, no7v for tribute. 

The kinsmen of the British slain have demanded 



98 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

that the principal captives be butchered, and this 
the King thinks he shall allow. Lucius receives the 
word with apparent fortitude, but bespeaks (11. 85-88) 
that Imogen be spared : — 

. . . never master had 
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, 
So tender over his occasions, true, 
So feat, so nurse-like. 

Cymbeline looks into the face of Imogen, and thinks 

he has seen it before somewhere, yet does not recog- 

, nise his daughter. We note again that there 

Arviragus s "^ " . 

imagina- is no Arviragus penetration m this mmd. 
tion not jg^^ something of her influence comes upon 

inherited ° 

from his him. He will spare her, and he will spare 
lather. ^^^ master too. That he may not unsay 

his royal word too Hghtly, he offers her a boon 
and tries to make her choose that this shall be the 
saving of the proconsul's Hfe. To his surprise, she 
thanks him, but makes no request. Lucius hints to 
her of his expectation. ^ She answers him with the 
sternness of an executioner, that there is something 
, . . that will prevent, that even his life must 

lachimo ^ 

recognised shuffle for itself. The riddles are multiply- 
by Imogen, -j^g. £qj. here is lachimo, once a messenger 
of her husband, wearing her mother's ring. Cymbe- 
line, while she waits, pondering this thing that is 
bitter to her as death, plies her (11. no, in) anew : — 

1 Lucius is here somewhat belittled from the true type of a Roman 
commander, in order, apparently, to avoid a disadvantageous contrast 
with the other male characters of the play. He must not arouse our 
admiration and sympathy too strongly, lest we be brought into an- 
tagonism to the course that Imogen proposes. 



CYMBELINE V. v 99 

Know'st him thou look'st on ? Speak. 
Wilt have him live ? Is he thy kin, thy friend ? 

But her course is already found and resolved on, 
lachimo shall declare of whom he obtained her ring ; 
and she will use the King's kindness to her as the 
means to extort that knowledge. 

lachimo is not so much wanting in penetration as 
the lady who confronts him. As he begins his story, 
by summarily confessing that the ring was Posthu- 
mus's, and got by villany, her colour changes, much 
doubtless as it did when {cf. I. vi. 11) he gave her 
the letters, some months since, from her husband. 
He notes the changed expression, and, as it seems, 
recognises instantly who it is, and with whom he has 
to do. This near presence, so suddenly divined, of the 
woman for whom he has conceived the deepest rev- 
erence, unmans him, and he cries out to the King for 
patience. On recovering himself, he reverts The chief 
to his iniquitous treatment of Posthumus, jach^inlo's 
which has grown and grown in his con- career, 
sciousness until it has become the chief episode of 
his life. So he tells it in detail, until he has flashed 
out the truth that he got his evidence against Imo- 
gen by cunning, without her knowledge. Then 
stalks Posthumus forward in agony, calling for cord, 
knife, poison, and ingenious torturers, that he may 
be put at some exquisite expiation of the wickedness 
that he has committed : — 

It is/ 

That all the abhorr'd things o' the earth amend 
By being worse than they. / am Posthumus, 

L.ofC. 



lOO WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

That killed thy daughter; — villain-like, I lie — 

That caused a lesser villain than myself, 

A sacrilegious thief, to do 't : the temple 

Of virtue was she, — yea, and she [virtue] herself. 

Spit, and thrown stones, cast mire upon me, set 

The dogs o' the street to bay me; every villain 

Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and 

Be villany less than 'twas ! O Imogen ! 

My queen ! My life ! My wife ! O Imogen ! 

Imogen ! Imogen ! 

Is it wonder, now, that Imogen comes forward 
toward this man, holding her arms out, and crying, — 

Peace, my lord ! Hear, hear, — 

and striving to save him the least instant's further 
pain ? But Posthumus does not know what 
as pr'e^^^ the pagc-lilcc figure is that appeals to him. 
tending to Hq can think but of interruptions in the 
Posthu- theatre, such, that is, as Elizabethan actors 
musact- suffered and dreaded. He is in too great 
agony to endure impertinence or mockery 
even from a new favourite of the King, and he strikes 
the upstart meddler. She falls swooning to the 
ground. 

Poor Imogen ! This seems too much. Why 
should Shakespeare have ordained this cruel error .-" 
Shall we say that it is in keeping with Posthumus's 
understanding and appreciation of Imogen hitherto, 
that it is typical of what her lot must be if she is to 
leave her destiny in Posthumus's keeping ? It would 
be something too harsh to judge his weakness thus. 
Nor may we quite insist that this is a visual, dramatic 
allegory of their past wedded life. When he strikes 



CYMBELINE V. v lOI 

her, for her sake, we cannot but forgive him. And we 
recognise that the incident checks our rising The blow 
enthusiasm for Posthumus, and keeps the ^^ keeping 
hero, relatively to the herome, m his proper subordi- 
place. When Imogen returns to conscious- "^''on. 
ness, she forgets to disguise her voice, and her father 
hears once more the tones, 'the tune,' of Imogen. 

Then follow explanations concerning the Queen's 
cordial, and the court-doctor's ruse. But while these 
smaller enigmas are being cleared, Imogen Imogen 
has gone to Posthumus, and put her arms ^ait^orher 
about his neck. He seems to have retreated husband. 
a few steps, after he learns whom he has struck. 
He cannot presume to draw near her, and she will 
not wait. There is no reproach, and there is no for- 
giveness. All things are as if the cruel past had 
never been. 

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you ? 
Think that you are upon a rock, and now 
Throw me again ! 

Imogen's metaphor is a strong one, and characteris- 
tic. Should we say that Posthumus's answering one 
is equal in confidence and power .-' 

Imogen begins where she has left off, presuming 
upon no changes. That the father needs to call for 
some recognition, at this point, from his daughter, 
is his fault, not hers. But now, kneeling all dutifully, 
she asks his blessing. Imogen, we may be sure, has 
never knelt before to her father, who, before the 
coming of the new Queen, was not in his home a 
king. There is a little interval of silence, with I mo- 



I02 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

gen waiting, and her father bending over, and she 
feels his tears upon her forehead. He is thinking 
of the strange sight, and of their ahenation, and its 
inhuman cause. The old days, he would have her 
know, are over ; the wicked Queen shall no longer 
divide their lives. Imogen, thinking his sorrow is 
for the Queen, essays comfort : — 

I am sorry for V, my lord. 

Here is a triumph of pathos surely. 

The scene and play wait but for their winding up. 
Pisanio explains of Cloten's departure from the court, 
and Guiderius of his death. Belarius discloses who 
the young deliverers are. Guiderius is proved Imo- 
gen's brother by the presence upon his neck of a 
sanguine star like hers. There are other not less 
Arviragus palpable marks, as we have seen, of myste- 
usThe^''^ rious kinship: they have ahke the objec- 
mother. tivcncss and the simplicity of their father. 
Arviragus must derive his vision, and his exquisite 
love of the beautiful, from his mother. Cymbeline, 
since Imogen is his once more, has been giving her 
in thought the kingdom. Now, it shall be, not hers, 
but her elder brother's. This brings regret, for she 
is dearer than this son, whose worth is yet to learn. 
Will not she also suffer disappointment at such loss 
of power.? Her answer (11. 373, 374) is the noblest 
utterance in the play : — 

No, my lord, 
I have got two worlds by it. 

* Two worlds, — my father's home, and mine.' She 



CYMBELINE V. v IO3 

would not exchange these for the glamour of a court. 
And does she not mean also that each brother brings 
a new, an added existence for herself ? 

Surely there was never woman more unselfish. 
Her Hfe is too large, too full, to be absorbed but 
with her needs and joys. Posthumus is her ^j^^ ^^_ 
affinity in this ; he does not regret the king- selfishness 
dom. His reconciliation with Cymbeline ° '"°g^"- 
comes last of all, and Shakespeare slurs it over : — 

/am, sir, 
The soldier that did company these three 
In poor beseeming. 'Twas a fitment for 
The purpose I then foUow'd. 

Cymbeline is kept from pronouncing his acquiescence 
here by the plea of lachimo. His contrition is sin- 
cere, or he would have begged and connived lachimo 
for his life betimes. He has been saved by alone has 

, . ■■ . 1 , . ^ ^ discerned 

his comprehension and worship of Imogen s Imogen 
nobleness and worth ; he indeed alone has completely. 
discerned them fully. Posthumus makes his for- 
giveness of the man, who has sinned so grievously 
against his wife, merely incidental. Should he not 
have referred the case to her ? Shakespeare seems 
to hold not so. As Posthumus puts his bracelet 
again upon the arm of Imogen, and her ring again 
upon his hand, he speaks to the kneeling culprit in 
the divinest human charity, — once known and under- 
stood indeed as Christian : — 

Kneel not to me. 
The power that I have on you is to spare you, 
The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, 
And deal with others better. 



I04 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

And Imogen says no word of protest. Cymbeline, 
who has no truculence or vindictiveness in his nature, 
commends the clemency, and works in a laconic and 
dignified amnesty for Posthumus : — 

Nobly doomed ! 
We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law. 
Pardon 's the word to all. 

We encounter again the absurd trumpery of the label, 
which we must consistently reject. If we drop out 
the Soothsayer's paragraph, and Cymbeline's re- 
sponse (11. 435-452), we shall save to the author 
something of his deserved and usual dignity in this 
closing situation. To insure an harmonious and 
graceful close, the diction takes on nobleness : — 

The fingers of the powers above do tune 
The harmony of this peace. 

. . . Laud we the gods; 
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils 
From our blest altars. 

Seldom in Shakespeare have commonplace mean- 
ings been cast in more select and virile interpretative 
diction. 

Many readers and critics have taken issue with 
the author over the forbearance of Posthumus. 
lachimo, they say, should have been made to suffer 
a condign penalty. But it does not appear that 
Punitive 7yj. Posthumus pardoned the guilt of lachimo, 
pursuVof ^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^^ moral right or indeed 
crime. the powcr to do this had he so willed, 
lachimo's crime was against himself, as he now 
knows. The most advanced criminal theory of 



CYMBELINE V. v IO5 

these times would hold that man has small right to 
pursue the offences of his fellow except correctively. 
Imogen did not forgive Posthumus for his attempt 
against her life, for she refused to take cognizance 
of the wrong. Posthumus suffered more as the 
offender than she the victim, and she pitied him. 
It is to be sure a high plane of existence on which 
the author takes leave of his heroine and hero, but the 
play was constituted in part that this plane might be 
recognized. Such characters and such conduct are 
unusual, and as the world would judge, unpractical. 
But the Christ spirit was adjudged unusual and un- 
practical two thousand years ago. Yet that spirit, in 
kind, rules mankind to-day. The only question here 
is a question of degree. 

Let us suppose that Imogen had not been large- 
minded and unpractical when she gave lachimo his 
hearing in the first act. Suppose she had been in- 
sufficient, in self-estimate, for her integrity, and had 
attempted vindication for the personal affront. 
Suppose that lachimo had not gone away from 
Britain with the revelation and awe of the The forces 
truth and nobleness that possessed his soul, g^nel"^' 
Suppose he had come to the battle, not lachimo. 
having these forces in him, as inspired by her, but 
with the same contempt for woman that he pro- 
fessed at first. Would he have opened his heart 
when Imogen asked him from whom he had obtained 
her ring .-' If he had at that time told other than the 
truth, would Posthumus have known his mistake, 
and betrayed his grief .-' If Posthumus had not 



I06 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

known his mistake and betrayed his grief, what 
would have been her future or his own ? Or, let us 
suppose, after it is known that Guiderius is Cymbe- 
line's oldest child and heir to the throne, that Imo- 
gen or her husband attempt to contest the claim. 
That would have been practical and usual, yet much 
to be regretted. After all, deep down in our natures, 
we are conscious of an affinity to such living, and 
would fain enact it and see it actualised everywhere 
about us. We are much nearer this consummation 
than Shakespeare's generation was, when three 
hundred years ago he made this study of a noble 
_, womanhood. There is no mystery about its 

The mean- -' -' 

ingofthe triumph. He has formed Imogen's nature 
P'^^' and career according to a principle clear to 

his mind, and formulated long before by another and 
greater master of human nature, — Blessed are the 
meek, for they shall inJierit the earth. Nobody in the 
play save Imogen ' inherits ' anything. She does not 
get the kingdom, but possesses the hearts of those 
who rule. In her amplified and sufficient living 
those who are about her live and have their being 
also. 

Thus it is clear how Shakespeare is a revealer and 
interpreter of life. We cannot say that his creation 
How exceeds nature. We are indeed sure that 

Shake- such womanhood has existed and exists to- 

speare is an 

artist. day. In order that there might be such 

a daughter, it was necessary to have a king-father 
that the Queen could hoodwink, and to keep us from 
greatly caring. The whole court, its history, the 



CYMBELINE V. v 10/ 

Queen, Cloten, and indeed Posthumus are but the 
means of bringing out Imogen's nature, and exist 
for that end alone. / The man who has a great idea 
or thought, and can create or devise means by which 
he may communicate it to others and share his ex- 
periences of it with them, is what we call an Artist. 
Shakespeare is thus surely an artist of eminence. 
He is an artist also because he knows well how to 
inaugurate causes for the effects he wants, and 
because he controls our sympathies, making us love 
what he loves, hate what he hates. 

But how did it chance that Shakespeare, who gave 
his life largely to studies of feminine character, put 
off the portrait just analysed till almost the end.? It 
is perhaps a common assumption that Shakespeare 
was not content with the womanly figures that he 
had painted hitherto, but wished to supplement them 
with another answering more nearly to his individual 
and perhaps domestic predilections. There are 
signs indeed, as we have noted, that Cymbeline was 
written to satisfy a personal rather than a dramatic 
ideal. Its author had entered the great world, and 
seen probably some of the most brilliant women of 
the times, at least in England. He had gj^^j^^ 
known Elizabeth, and perhaps admired her ; speare's 
but he painted no portrait, save one, that in ^° ^ ^' 
the least resembled her. He made the study of a 
highly subjective and undisciplined feminine nature 
in Cleopatra, and one even of an inherently false 
personality in Cressida ; but such types did not, 
except for the moment, engage his mind. It has 



I08 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

been inferred that he found his ideal by contraries, 
and in some measure by way of his conjugal experi- 
ences and history ; but of this there is not so much as 
a syllable of proof. It is just as hkely that he made 
his Imogen on the model of Anne Hathaway or of 
his mother. We can at least be sure that Shake- 
speare wished, in this play, to portray a typical 
Anglo-Saxon lady, a woman not high-strung or 
brilliantly imaginative, because such a nature is 
subjective, liable to moods and ennui, and intolerant 
of burdens. So he has wrought a home-maker, a 
domestic paragon, yet, by virtue of her spiritual 
insight, and her beauty and worth of character, 
withal a queen. To forestall the paradox, lest we 
should not beheve, he caused her to be born in a 
king's palace, and invested, in the idea and expecta- 
tion of the kingdom, with a queen's rights indeed. 

Here are potent suggestions concerning Shake- 
speare, both as an artist and a man. What he must 
have been as a man, to have made such a study as 
this proves to be, cannot be doubtful. What he was 
as an artist is not so easy to comprehend; but the 
construction of the play in hand has made some 
things clear. When a man has potential notions of 
such goodness and worth as Imogen's, which he has 
never seen, yet knows are veritable and existent in 
The artist different degrees and forms somewhere in 
must be the world, we say that he has vision, or is 
a seer. ^ sccr. Many people have revelations of 
such high qualities and excellencies of character, but 
cannot communicate them. All great literature, and 



CYMBELINE V. v lOQ 

all eminence in the world of painting and sculpture 
and music, is made up of two things, " Seeing and 
Saying." The man who at once on seeing feels it in 
his fingers to paint, or carve, or write what has come 
into his mind, is essentially an artist. So no one can 
be an artist who does not preconceive some Imogen 
or like vision of the Beautiful or the True to paint or 
make a play about. Every man who does have such 
revelations, and can make everybody else, or many 
or most people, with a little aid or education, see 
what he sees and experience the inspiration that he 
has felt, is an artist, as has been said in part before, 
typically and truly. 

It will be expedient to alter somewhat the manner 
of interpreting and appropriating Shakespeare in the 
remaining pages. We have been trying to 
make over the meanings of his poetry and speare's 
art into the Hteral terms of prose ; but this "^^^"'"85 

I- ' not trans- 

can never be done effectually. A work of latabie into 

art is potential, and adapted to all time, p*""^^- 
What in it is potential, and not Hteral, cannot be 
imparted by mind to mind, but must be personally 
discerned. To know a play of Shakespeare is like 
knowing a great picture. One must study it patiently 
in detail. It takes a month to study a great picture 
over. It takes more than a month to know a play 
of Shakespeare's ; and no one can make his know- 
ledge do duty for another's. The best that the man 
who has studied can do, as in the case of a picture, 
is to show his fellow how to see. No one mind, save 
the artist's, sees all. Accordingly, in the inspection 



no WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

of the plays or parts of plays remaining to our pur- 
pose, we shall forestall as little as may be ultimate 
knowledge of the given piece, which it is the reader's 
right to achieve alone. It is as impertinent in litera- 
ture as in other fields of art to thrust upon the reader 
his author's meanings ; though the end here, it is be- 
lieved, has justified some deviation. 



Ill 

THE WINTER'S TALE 

To acquaint us with antecedent circumstances, The 
Winter's Tale is opened with a dialogue between two 
court gentlemen, much like Cymbeline. They p , 

explain the extraordinary attachment of King the opening 
Polyxenes for the King of Sicily, and meet ^'^^"^' 
the improbability of the former's prolonged visit with 
Leontes, somewhat effectually, in advance. Both 
join in praises of the young prince Mamilhus ; and 
this, since his mother may hardly be discussed here 
by the courtiers, prepares imagination for the intro- 
duction of the Sicilian Queen. 

But when Leontes and his king friend come before 
us in Scene ii, we find that their feelings toward each 
other have undergone of late some change. Polyxe- 
nes, with much of rhetorical circumstance and ele- 
gance, implies to his comrade that he has stayed 
long enough, three-quarters of a year, and must be 
going. He would like to express adequately his 
thanks, but that would occupy as many months as 
his entertainment has already lasted. Leontes is 
bound to reply of course in kind, deprecating the 
acknowledgment, and urging a yet longer visit. Yet 
he does not refute the obligation, or make as if the 
absence of his friend would be displeasing, but on 

III 



112 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the contrary implies that Polyxenes, for all his say- 
ing, does not mean to go. That makes Polyxenes 
forget his circumlocutions, and affirm curtly that he 
shall go to-morrow. But this summariness, in the 
face of previous dallies, needs explaining, which he 
attempts. He thinks apparently that he can force 
his royal host to civility by suggesting that he has 
stayed so long as to become a burden. Instead of 
the expected protestings, Leontes implies that this is 
true, and grimly declares that he has indeterminate 
capacity to be bored. Polyxenes by this has got 
as far aside from court parlance as his friend, and 
farther even, for he despoils his sentence of its verb. 
Now, surely, these royal gentlemen understand each 
other. Leontes, not in irony, but for very shame, pro- 
poses that his friend remain another week. Polyxe- 
nes will not budge from his dignity or his word, 
and Leontes suggests that they split the difference 
and put the limit at three days and a half. At this, 
Polyxenes with some argument, and a little less pique 
perhaps, begins formal talk once more. No tongue 
in the world, he affirms, so soon could move him. 
But, as he is pleased to put it, his affairs do even 
drag him homeward. 

All this while Hermione, the Queen, has been 
standing in state beside her husband, watching the 
issue of his attempt to qualify the insult to his guest. 
The last answer of Polyxenes was of course absurd 
enough. Leontes will neither contradict it, nor allow 
the scandal of an immediate departure. So he calls 
upon the Queen to save him from defeat. And the 



THE WINTER'S TALE I. ii II3 

snappish manner as well as matter of his words to 
her show why she has not taken part in the dialogue, 
and why he has till now ignored her. Leontes is 
jealous, and is willing to be understood as believing 
that Polyxenes has made his nine-months stay for the 
sake of Hermione's society. Hermione has undoubt- 
edly had intimations before, in private, of Hermione 
her husband's feeling; for she takes great ^"^^^3.^ 
pains to avoid asking Polyxenes to remain, band, 
while making it virtually impossible for him to stand 
by his words to her husband. She suggests a com- 
promise, the 'borrow of a week,' being careful to 
name the same time that Leontes has proposed. She 
rallies Polyxenes volubly and brilhantly, plying him 
with feigned and distant importunity, and keeps 
withal her husband from working in a further word : — 

You'll stay ? 

No, madam. 
Nay, but you will f 

I may not, verily. 
Verily ! 

You put me off with nimble oaths ; but /, 
Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths, 
Should yet say ' Sir, no going.^ * Verily ' 
You shall not go. A lady's ' Verily ' is 
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet, — 
Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 
Not like a guest ? So you shall pay your fees 
When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you? 
'M.y prisoner, or ray guest f By your dread ' Verily,' 
One of them you shall be. 

Your guest, then, madam. 

We cannot much doubt that Polyxenes, in spite of 



114 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the rough handling that he has received, is quite will- 
ing to remain. The attentions of Hermione have 
salved his pride. But he seems wholly invulnerable 
to the idea that trouble may come to her from seem- 
ing to have induced him to change his mind. 

Of course there is Camillo, and there are attend- 
ants, present. If the kings are not brought together 
again, there will be talk. We may be sure that the 
court folk understand the King's feelings, if Polyxe- 
nes does not. Hermione, as we notice, changes the 
subject instantly, and by a turn that she thinks will 
please her husband ; but in her haste to reach a con- 
clusion she is scarcely edifying to his friend : — 

Was not 77iy lord 
The verier wag o' the two? 

Or, is this perhaps to afford Leontes the chance of 
retreat from his insolence, by pretending it j^g^j^j. 
all a jest } This is very likely the Queen's one's self- 
purpose ; but her husband fails to use the p°^^^^^'°"- 
opportunity, remaining silent and apparently sullen 
as before. Polyxenes is willing to talk to the point 
proposed, but steers stupidly and squarely into an 
implication that the Queen follows up gayly to his 
discomfiture. Leontes, not liking the freedom or per- 
haps the topic of their conversation, looks up and 
asks significantly whether he is ' won ' yet. Hermi- 
one makes a gentle and considerate answer, at which 
Leontes petulantly (1. ^'j^ betrays his jealous and nar- 
row spirit : — 

At my request he would not ! 



THE WINTER'S TALE I. ii 



115 



He adds ironically that she has never spoken to bet- 
ter purpose. This she receives archly and lovingly, 
making him think of the moment when she Hermi- 
confessed herself his. With beautiful chat- ones tact. 
ter she charms from him some pleasant words, and 
then puts an end to the interview by drawing Polyxe- 
nes aside. She sees that there is nothing to be 
gained by leaving the kings longer together. 

As Hermione is ushered aside, in Elizabethan court 
fashion by her guest, Leontes finds a new occasion to 
indulge his jealousy. Nothing is happening differ- 
ent or differently from what has happened any day 
these nine months past ; but Leontes apparently is 
finding any attention or civility from Polyxenes to his 
wife of late unbearable. We recognise this hanging 
about of Polyxenes — his Queen {cf. 1. 34) is appar- 
ently not living — as preposterous ; and while we do 
not justify Leontes in his jealousy, we cannot blame 
him much for feeling disturbed. Mamillius, left for 
the moment by his mother, stands silently near, watch- 
ing with strange precocity the signs of trouble in his 
father's face. Though the lad is thoroughly acute 
and brilliant, he is not yet of years that enable a 
princely toilet; and his nose is at this moment in 
need of his mother's handkerchief. We have just 
been regretting the lengthening moments of her com- 
plaisance to Polyxenes, and now this seeming neglect 
has palpable influence with us to her disadvantage. 
The doubts of Leontes, voiced openly concerning the 
lad's paternity, have by no means an idealising effect 
upon her wifehood. The author is plainly preparing 



Il6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

for another plot of marital misunderstanding, but less 
tenderly as touching his heroine than in the former 
play. 

The element of time is requisite in establishing 
relations as significant as these. The author makes 
Hermione lead her guest back toward Leontes, who 
finishes his soliloquy and refuses to recognise their 
approach. Polyxenes addresses him, and without an 
answer. Hermione speaks to him with more serious- 
ness than hitherto, and Leontes replies civilly to her 
inquiry. Polyxenes comes in (11. 164, 165) for a little 
recognition when Leontes asks : — 

Axe you as fond oi your young prince as we 
Do seem to be of ours? 

Polyxenes declares that his son is all his exercise, his 
mirth, his matter, but apparently does not divine the 
reason why Leontes has thus drawn him out. He 
seems certainly very comfortable after almost a year's 
withdrawal from domestic joys. Leontes is more 
than ever aroused over this nafve exhibition of in- 
consistency, and goes aside with MamilUus from the 
pair at once. Manifestly it would not do to leave 
Hermione and her husband's friend responsible for 
going apart from the scene, if Leontes is to stay. 
To clear the stage for the next turn of the plot, 
Leontes is made to send Mamillius off by himself to 
play. 

It would have in some respects been better if 
Camillo had been left out of the scene. But the 
author wished him to be a witness to the yielding of 



THE WINTER'S TALE I. ii 117 

Polyxenes, and the jealous conduct of Leontes. 
Furthermore, to make a new scene begin here would 
exalt the subordinate matter and action following to 
an equality with what has just preceded. So the 
author has the King call Camillo to his presence. 
He alludes to Polyxenes's continued stay, and finds 
Camillo, — for a very different reason from The evoiu- 
what he suspects, ready to talk. Then *?" °f, . 

'■ ^ •> ^ Camillo s 

begins the evolution of Camillo's consent to consent. 
serve as the King's tool. We see that Leontes is 
naturally a very jealous man, or he would not wish 
his life-long friend killed for mere suspicion. He 
is a Sicilian, and exhibits somewhat of the intense 
and summary hatred peculiar to his race. Camillo 
is honest as courtiers go, and makes sure, before 
he engages to poison Polyxenes, that the King will 
not proceed publicly or otherwise against Hermione. 
He also makes Leontes promise to treat his guest 
in a manner that will avert all possible suspicion. 

At this point, were the subject-matter here what 
is usual in the first act of a play, another scene 
might be begun. But the author has peculiar mate- 
rial in hand, and is without need or wish to develop 
into dramatic fulness as elsewhere. He is really in 
haste, as seems, to have done with this part of the 
plot. Leontes is made to leave the stage, that we 
may hear, from Camillo in a soliloquy, that he does 
not blame the Queen, and that he has no least inten- 
tion of doing the King's will. Polyxenes is then 
brought in once more, receives scant courtesy at first 
from Camillo, and tells of a fresh snub from the 



Il8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

King. Thus the resolution for his flight is easily 
evolved. We are glad to hear his consternation (11. 
417-424) at Leontes's charge, and to know, — 

I saw his heart in 's face, — 

that, in spite of his Bohemian heaviness and slow- 
ness, he has seen more than he has been willing to 
own or realise. And so the royal guest sneaks away, 
by the postern gates, from his friend's palace, never 
for a moment thinking of the effect his flight may 
have upon the destiny or welfare of the Queen. 

Hermione is perhaps not greatly surprised at the 
outbreak of Leontes, and does not seem troubled at 
the treatment he has accorded his life-long friend. 
She is not sensitive over the matter, so far as it con- 
cerns herself, and will scarcely think of taking her 
husband to task for his unkingly escapade. The 
curtain rises next probably at some time in the fore- 
noon of the day following the last scene. Polyxenes 
and Camillo seem not to have taken ship till after 
daylight. The central, subordinating figure in the 
Mamii- gfoup now shown is Mamillius, who prefers 
feUowSi's ^^^ mother to the sports and playthings of 
mother. the royal nursery, and has wearied her with 
his exactions. The smutched nose no longer wit- 
nesses imaginatively against her motherly offices and 
regard. That was but for the moment, while the 
author was making us look at Hermione, in some 
measure, from her husband's eyes. 

It is a situation singularly in contrast with the 
scene preceding. The pervading strength of Her- 



THE WINTER'S TALE II. i 119 

mione's personality is discerned everywhere, and 
particularly in the domestic, substantial character 
of the women whom she has chosen as her court 
companions. Mamillius discourses against the First 
Lady, who has forced too many hard hugs and baby 
caresses upon him. He tries to tell why he Hkes 
the Second Lady better, — that something in her face, 
which he is sure is not in the forehead, but gets lost 
in attempting to trace because of his general lore in 
eyebrows. It is not so rare that a lad of five should 
see acutely ; but that he should say wisely, and gen- 
eralise ingeniously, surprises even the court women 
who have watched him since his birth. It is not 
surely from his father that he has inherited or ac- 
quired this wisdom. 

It is thus not strange that Hermione's women talk 
to Mamillius as if he were much older than he is. 
The mother, rested now, asks for her son again. He 
comes back to her, not with a run, and a leap into 
her lap, but sedately, stopping some steps from her ; 
and he begs for nothing, not so much even as a 
story. It is she indeed who requests the story, and 
from him. We can hear his boyish tones, almost, 
as (11. 23, 25) he speaks of his repertoire, and asks 
his mother's will : — 

Merry or sad shall 't be? 
A sad tale 's best for winter. I have one 
Of sprites and goblins. 

Most children can be scared pretty effectually, as 
listeners, by tales of ghosts. Here is one who 
frightens his mother by telling them ; and she 



120 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

proudly confesses that he is powerful at it. He 
stands like an orator to begin ; but she makes him 
sit upon her knee. Though she has interrupted him, 
he completes his sentence without restarting, — a rhe- 
torical feat not usual to his years. Dr. Furness sug- 
gests that the 'crickets,' who are not to hear, are 
the court women, and thus solves an unusually hard 
puzzle of the text. We may understand that the 
First and Second Lady are withdrawn a little, that 
the boy and his mother may exchange confidences if 
they will. 

It is a beautiful moment which we could have 
wished prolonged. But we are not permitted to 
hear more than the first softly uttered sentence, for 
without is heard the excited stride of intruding feet. 
Without request or permission Leontes and his lords 
push their way into the Queen's apartments. News 
from the harbour has just come to the King, and 
started him, half crazed, to iind the Queen. The flight 
of Polyxenes has done the mischief, for this to Leon- 
tes in his present mood is tantamount to an admission 
of guilt. Leontes has undoubtedly heard the details 
of the flight, but to avoid telling Hermione anything 
directly he makes the First Lord repeat some items. 
He assumes, or affects to assume perhaps, that she 
knows already, yet will pretend ignorance or ask 
some question. We may be sure that she looks on 
him with calm, firm eyes, with no expectation of evil, 
Leontes and that he does not find it easy to meet 
hesitates to j^^j. gazc. Sincc it is impossible to address 

address the ° ^ 

Queen. her, he flatters himself to the First Lord 



THE WINTER'S TALE II. i 121 

over the soundness of his suspicions, and rehearses 
his wrongs, expecting perhaps to inckide at least 
some reference to the Queen's share in the conspir- 
acy against his Hfe. Since Hermione, as he thinks, 
refuses to take his meaning, he snatches Mamillius 
from her. She asks him, wonderingly, if this is 
sport. It is time, evidently, to make her understand 
his feelings, but he cannot accuse her even yet 
directly. His evasion is to speak to the lords, bid 
them — 

Look on her, mark her well. Be but about 
To say ' she is a goodly lady,' and 
The justice of your hearts will thereto add 
• 'Tis pity she's not honest, honourable.' 

It is a painful paragraph, though more painful to 
him who speaks than to those who hear. When 
Hermione has learned at last the ground of his 
trouble, she makes (11. 78-81) only this strong and 
kindly answer, — 

Should a villain say so, 
The most replenished villain in the world, 
He were as much more villain. You, my lord, 
Do but mistake. 

There is no rebuke, or anger, or personal feeling in 
this reply ; but there is lofty, disinterested sorrow for 
the man who has fallen beneath himself, and is pre- 
paring for humiliation. The conviction and certitude 
of these words anger Leontes worse than sarcasm or 
abuse, could she have used them, would have done. 
For the moment he dares address her directly, but 
he quickly goes back to his device of speaking to 



122 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

her, over the lord's shoulders, in the third person. 
He charges her with being a traitor, and having 
made Camillo her accomplice, and being aware of 
the late escape. He probably knows better, but he 
is trying to scandahse her, and break in any way 
possible her exasperating repose. The result is 
worse failure than before. She betrays no sign of 
surprise or pain. She is still but sorry for his mis- 
takes, his suffering. 

No, by my life, 
, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, 

"When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
You thus have publish'd me ! Gentle my lord, 
You scarce can right me throughly then to say 
You did mistake. 

She is helpless, but will not acknowledge it. Since 
she will pretend that she cares nothing for her hus- 
band's abuse and insults, he will make her feel his 
power. He orders her forth to prison, and condemns 
beforehand all who would plead in her behalf. Her- 
mione is not dismayed or even worried at the prospect. 

There's some ill planet reigns. 
I must be patient till the heavens look 
With an aspect more favourable. 

Evil cannot always or long prevail. She is willing 
to wait until it shall give way. She excuses to the 
lords her lack of tears, and declares her submission 
Hermi- to the King's will. It is a moment of sub- 
one's faith. iiYYie triumph. Strange strength is abroad, 
surrounding her and upholding her, making her 
more than human to those who see her and hear 



THE WINTER'S TALE II. i 1 23 

her speak. It seems to Leontes that he has been 
silenced, that her words drown out his royal order. 
Nobody, indeed, remembers it or is conscious of its 
authority, and Leontes actually cries out, as in help- 
lessness, that he may have back his rights. After a 
little silence, while the whole company stands awe- 
bound yet, Hermione is heard requesting of the King 
that her women may be with her in the prison. Le- 
ontes seems not to hear, for there is no consenting or 
other sound at all, save the weeping of the women. 
Then Hermione, after some words (11. 11 8-1 24) of 
comfort to the attendants and of farewell to her hus- 
band, — 

Do not weep, good fools; 

There is no cause. . . . This action I now go on 

Is for my better grace. — Adieu, my Lord : 

I never wished to see you sorry; now, 

I trust, I shall, — 

withdraws herself from her home and son. When, 
of her own motion, followed by her women, she has 
gone some steps on the way toward prison, Leontes 
repeats his order to the halberd men. They do not 
arrest her, but follow her, escort her, along the path 
that she is choosing. 

After she is gone, and the soldiers who attend her 
are out of sight, the First Lord breaks the silence, 
begging Leontes to call the Queen again. He does 
not speak. The First Lord and Antigonus plead. 
It all comes to nothing, except to prepare for the 
knowledge that Leontes has applied already to 
Apollo's oracle for enlightenment, which circum- 



124 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

stance makes it seem that he had not at first intended 
Shake- ^0 put Hemiione in prison. Of course the 
spearedoes appeal to the oraclc at Delphi is absurd, as 

not change . . . , . ^, . . 

Greene's the play IS not laid m pre-Christian times, 
errors. -^^^^ Shakcspcarc is in substance drama- 
tising Greene's novel of Dorastiis and Faivnia, first 
printed in 1588, and very popular; and Greene, who 
knew better, makes use of this anachronism in that 
work. 

The character of Hermione, as now left with us, 
calls for some melioration and relief. She is not in 
the least unwomanly, but her self-sufficiency and 
strength seem beyond the measure of her sex. Be- 
sides, it may be that we have retained from the second 
The uses scene of Act I, where she was presented in 
of Pauhna. g^ch a way as to account in part for her 
husband's jealousy, some impressions of indelicacy 
and boldness. That he may remove all hint of man- 
nishness, Shakespeare introduces Paulina, a character 
not found in Greene, in the next scene. As soon as 
we have sighted her, and discerned her type, we for- 
get even the most distant suggestion of such qualities 
in the Queen. Like things are done in the modula- 
tion of warm effects in painting, and in the toilettes 
of women. Too insistent depths of hue, too great 
heaviness or indeed briUiancy of colouring, are allevi- 
ated by some touch of new pigment, by a sash or rib- 
bon in the complemental shade. The first need here 
is to humanise and soften Hermione's repose of 
will. 

There is another purpose, as we at once discern, 



THE WINTER'S TALE II. iii 12$ 

why a Paulina must be forthcoming to the plot. 
Hermione, since immurement in the prison, has 
given birth to a daughter ; and it is necessary that 
this daughter be exposed on the coasts of Bohemia ; 
for Greene makes that country to have been mari- 
time. The motive for the casting out of the child 
has been preparing ever since the length of Polyxe- 
nes' stay at the court of Sicily was shaped. Leon- 
tes will deny the paternity of the child, — so much is 
clear ; and the plot will make him attempt to destroy 
its life. But how is the child to be brought into 
Leontes's power .-' He must not take it from Her- 
mione by force ; we should revolt at that. A Paulina 
is needed who, with all-compelling yet mistaken rea- 
sons, shall require it from its mother, and commend 
it to its father. The second scene makes us ac- 
quainted with the character of Paulina, and outlines 
the plan by which she is to do her work. 

It is, however, no small task that the author has 
proposed. We shall not easily consent to the cast- 
ing out of Hermione's babe, though only in -piie casting 
a play. There must be new and more com- out of the 
plete compulsion ; there must be all the cir- 
cumstance and inevitableness of real Hfe. We may 
be sure that Shakespeare divines this better than we 
can, and that he will make his causes yield none but 
just conclusions. At the opening of scene iii, we 
find that he has been at work, in thought, to meet 
the exigencies of the case. He has arrayed new forces 
on the side opposite to the Queen, and in the person 
of her husband. The spirit with which she has 



126 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

borne her wrongs would have conquered him, were 
he not too proud to yield. Her silence is an indict- 
ment of his good sense. Her quiet waiting for the 
vindication of her integrity maddens him. No such 
moment must be allowed to come. He will destroy 
her, and rid himself of fears lest she be innocent. 
She has pained him enough, in any case, to merit 
death. By thus showing Leontes determined to burn 
Hermione at the stake, unless her innocence be 
proved, the author makes us subordinate the fate of 
the child to hers for the time being; and we shall 
not know what becomes of her for two scenes yet. 
So we are prepared, by the new truculence of Leon- 
tes, to make unexpected concessions to the plot. 

The King is, besides, in a state of unwonted irrita- 
bility from lack of sleep. He has taken upon him- 
self to instruct his son in his mother's shames ; and 
these, he believes, have induced the sickness of which 
he tells. But we know that it is his pursuit of the 
boy's mother that has wrought the mischief. We 
see now why the author has given Mamillius an 
understanding so far beyond his years. He is 
wanted as a factor in the coming tragedy. 

Of all moments in the play, it is now that Paulina 
chooses to appear, bringing the Queen's babe before 
the King. Such women have no idea of times or 
seasons. They are as nettles to weak nerves. 
Leontes stands in awe of Hermione's womanly 
strength ; and any suggestion of her nature in an 
aggressive or shrewish form will be especially exas- 
perating to him now. He appears to have charged 



THE WINTER'S TALE II. iii 127 

Antigonus to keep his wife away ; and the answer 
(II. 44, 45) of that henpecked nobleman, — 

I told her so, my lord, 
On your displeasure's peril, and on mine, — 

seems, for the moment, as amusing to the half-insane 
Leontes as to us. The situation at any rate is not 
acute until Paulina announces that she has come 
from his good Queen. She bandies words with him, 
till he orders his guards to force her from the room. 
She threatens to scratch out the eyes of any one who 
shall lay hand on her, holding the babe in her arms 
the while. 

It is evidently the author's purpose to produce a 
situation intense enough to cover the transfer and 
removal of the child. It is interesting to watch the 
steps by which he advances to the solution of his 
problem. He first makes Paulina, who cannot imag- 
ine that any harm will befall the child, lay it down, 
as from the Queen, at the King's feet. Leontes com- 
mands Antigonus to take it up, but that nobleman 
does not obey. Then follows a heated parley. The 
King charges Paulina with having lately beaten her 
husband. Neither Antigonus nor his wife denies 
this, or seems to think it of any moment. PauHna is 
tactless enough to attempt the identification, to the 
lords, of the King's features in the face of the child. 
Leontes is less violent over this than could have been 
expected, having reached, for that matter, something 
like a climax of passion before the opening of the 
scene. He declares that he will have her burnt, but 



128 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

she defies him all the same. He then bids the 
guards, on their allegiance, to hale her forth. They 
approach, and we expect a scene. Thus is our atten- 
tion drawn away from the child, as a centre of inter- 
est, to Paulina, who does not after all resist but goes 
docilely away. 

The protector of the child is now removed ; so 
much of the task is done. Leontes now turns to 
The need Antigonus, and bids him carry the babe 
of an An- away, and see it immediately committed to 
tigonus. ^j^g flames ; this, in punishment for obedi- 
ence to his wife instead of to himself. Shake- 
speare gives us a good scare here, making us believe 
that he intends that fate. But he means merely to 
frighten us, dramatically, with this prospect of death, 
that we may consent to the lesser evil. He has but 
to make the lords beseech for the child's life, to win 
the King's consent that it shall not die, but be ex- 
posed instead. As the tool for this dastardly deed 
he has prepared Antigonus. Except that this man 
had been henpecked so thoroughly, he would have 
withheld consent. 

Even with all these forces arrayed against Her- 
mione's child, we should scarcely have consented to 
the plot, save for the sudden news that the messengers 
from Delphi are returned. We believe that in this 
lies hope for both. 

The third act, as will be noted, opens usually in 

Shakespeare with new elements and new 

Proof of action. The first scene here is meant in part 

the visit ^ 

to Delphi, to show US in advance that the visit to Delphi 



THE WINTER'S TALE III. ii 1 29 

has been really made ; for it will be in due time 
alleged that the oracle is ungenuine. Properly, save 
for the deviation and delay, the temple at Delphi 
should be shown ; we should have had some direct 
experience of the magnificence of the place and the 
stateliness of the ceremony, and seen Cleomenes and 
Dion receive the sealed-up responses from the priest. 
But what we have is an effectual substitute. We 
see the messengers hastening for Hermione's sake, 
and we hear them tell of what they have seen and 
how they have been impressed ; and we are as a 
matter of course persuaded, though unconsciously, 
that they have been at Delphi, and that they believe 
they are rendering the Queen true service. 

The second scene opens with a court assembly. 
Leontes has probably found out that there is a strong 
sentiment in the kingdom against the im- The trial of 
prisonment of his Queen, in her condition, t^e Queen, 
on mere suspicion. ' Let us be cleared,' he says, 
'of being tyrannous; since we so openly proceed in 
justice.' Then he bids the officers produce the 
prisoner ; and, after a little interval, while we have 
time to be impressed with the augustness and formal- 
ities of the tribunal, Hermione is ushered in. Though 
unaware, perhaps, of our feelings toward her, we 
have surely been waiting for this moment. Her- 
mione has lost nothing in our sight since she so 
grandly went forth to prison. Paulina is her closest 
attendant and will be soon in requisition, we may 
assume, in the same manner as before. 

It is no EngHsh court of justice. In Greene's 



I30 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

novel there is mention of a jury; but Shakespeare 
will invite no feelings of reverence for this trial. 
The King is both prosecutor and judge. Hermione 
appears without advocate or counsel. But she feels 
no need of either. When the indictment is read she 
rises and (11. 23-29) begins to address the court: — 

Since what I am to say must be but that 

Which contradicts my accusation, and 

The testimony on my part no other 

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me 

To say ' not guilty.' Mine integrity 

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 

Be so received. 

She feels no personal indignation or concern. She 
does not hope that she will be cleared ; but she is 
sublimely persuaded that right is more potent than 
injustice, and that her endurance of wrong will in 
the end defeat the malice of her persecutors. 

But thus : 7y powers divine 
Behold our human actions, — as they do, 
I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
Fake accusation blush and tyranny 
Tremble at patience. 

Her absolute, unshrinking faith in moral order has 
allied the powers of the universe in her defence, and 
made the august tribunal seem but a cheap and sorry 
Hermi- spcctacle. Leontcs had very likely per- 
one's faith suaded himsclf that by the pomp and cere- 
power of mony of his conclave of judges and lords 
truth. 2ix\d doctors learned in the law he could awe 

her and break her will. He finds this array of author- 
ity very inadequate to the humiliation and silencing 



THE WINTER'S TALE III. il I3I 

of such a prisoner. She is greater in her integrity 

than all the judicature of the realm. He essays 

to beat down her dignity by domestic retorts. With ^ 

almost divine consideration, ignoring his carping, 

spiteful humour, she speaks to the petty questions 

that he raises, arguing with subhme fervour. It is 

withal a woman's pleading through and through. 

More than mistress of 
What comes to me in name oi fault, I must not 
At all acknowledge. 

When the King attempted first to accuse Her- 
mione, before her women and Mamillius, in the first 
scene of the last act, he was put to summary and 
stern confusion. That was but a personal attack. 
The attempt here has been to impugn her publicly, 
as Queen of Sicily, and to exploit the Leontes 
national machinery of justice against her. j^n^iy'^ 
The failure has been even more abject and dignity. 
pitiable. ' Nature stretcheth out her arms,' says 
Emerson, * to man, only let his thoughts be of equal 
greatness.' The majesty of Hermione's mind has 
subordinated the pride and power of Sicily. Leontes 
has no resource but to make new and absurd allega- 
tions, and affirm that her fate is sealed already. 
This stirs no rebellious feehng, for very different 
sentiments (11. 92-97) possess her wholly : — 

Sir, spare your threats. 
The bug you would fright me with I seek. 
To me life can be no commodity. 
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, 
I do give lost, for I do feel it gone. 
But know not how it went. 



132 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

That her husband has not forfeited her affection, in 
spite of all that he has done to extinguish it, that she 
misses it and desires it even in these moments of 
abuse, touches the extreme of pathos, and gives us 
the measure of her character and devotion. 

The climax of the scene is quickly reached. Her- 
mione appeals from the King to the lords, and the 
court at large, and asks for the decision of the oracle. 
No one has the right of speech in sessions save with 
the King's permission; but the First Lord declares 
fearlessly that the appeal is just, and demands, in 
Apollo's name, that the messengers be sent for. 
There is a spell upon the company, and the officers 
feel the summons of a higher law than the King's 
will. They bring in Cleomenes and Dion quickly. 
The oath is administered, the seals are broken, and 
the head officer reads the findings of Apollo's court : — 

Hermione is chaste ; Polyxenes bla?neless ; Camilla 
a true subject ; Leontes a jealous tyn-ant ; his inno- 
cent babe truly begotten ; and the king shall live with- 
out an heir, if that which is lost be not found. 

We may be sure that hearts beat hard throughout 
the audience, as the officer reads these ringing sen- 
tences. When he has finished, the lords break out 
into exclamations of gratitude to Apollo. Hermione 
shows no such excitement, being heard to utter but 
the one word, Praised ! Leontes impugns the oracle, 
and proposes to push the sessions forward even to 
the sentencing of the Queen. But a servant runs in 
distractedly, and interposes a message from the palace. 
Mamillius, with merely imagining what has happened 



THE WINTER'S TALE III. II 133 

or will happen to his mother, on this day of her trial, 
what with his sickness and anxiety hitherto, „ 

•' . Hermione 

has passed away. Hermione listens with firm overcome 
nerves. Then she hears Leontes say that only by the 

-' confession 

he has not been sincere in his jealousy, that of her 
he has pursued her and distressed her with '^"^^^'^'^• 
injustice. That is too much, and she falls in a dead 
swoon. 

Then all is changed in this august judgment hall. 
There is no confusion, no babbling of tongues, for 
every eye is fixed upon the King. Never j^ 
since he took the crown has he been such crucifies his 
an object of interest as now. He is implor- ^" ^' 
ing Apollo to be forgiven for his profaneness against 
the oracle. In the face of all the jurisconsults and 
lords and doctors he is heard confessing his plot 
against Polyxenes, and detailing how he threatened 
and bribed Camillo to become his tool. He was too 
proud before to bow to the moral superiority of his 
Queen. Now the gods have humbled him in the 
sight of all the kingdom. And he is withal wholly 
contrite and content. 

The court scene has done its work. But the author 
is evidently unwilling to close it here, and leave with 
us certain drastic impressions that it has made. He 
will subordinate it and merge it in a situation punheruse 
that shall make amends to its intended vie- of Paulina, 
tim. Paulina turns the undismissed sessions into an 
arraignment of the plaintiff King, and reads against 
him a feminine indictment that stirs our pity. The 
bitterness of this invective is then utilised as the occa- 



134 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

sion of making Pauline relent, and beg, with tears, 
forgiveness from the King. Thus, with vehement 
speed, is the wicked and cruel past, so necessary to 
the plot, lifted from our consciousness, and a brighter 
future prepared for. There is but the exposing 
of the child to be enacted, and this is quickly added 
in another scene. The author keeps us 

Our con- . ,. . 

sent to the f rom rcvolt by new and stronger mdignation 
exposure of against Antigonus. This is achieved by 
the child. ^1 . , • 1 f u ' • 

makmg hmi dream of Hermione weeping, 

as in punishment, and imploring him to carry her 
child to Bohemia. When he salves his conscience 
for doing the King's villany by insisting against his 
better light that the child will be laid upon the earth 
of its right father, we are done with him. The poetic 
justice of his being torn in pieces by the bear, a turn 
analogous to the taking off of Cloten in the former 
play, draws away our thought from the babe, which 
is at no moment out of protection or our sight. At 
the beginning of the shepherd's talk, on his discovery 
of the child, the play passes over from tragedy to 
comedy. 

There are marked differences here from the con- 
ception and treatment of the main figure in Cymbeline. 
, , In that drama Imogen conquers, without 

Imogen s & n > 

unepic intending resistance, in a domestic, wifely 
victory. way, by influences of meekness and good- 
ness that go out from her being. Hermione is 
stronger in presence and personality, and prevails in 
a truly heroic mood. Imogen was accused by her 
husband in absence, with only a trusty servant to 



THE WINTER'S TALE III. ii 1 35 

share the secret of her disgrace. Hermione is ma- 
ligned by her husband personally and in presence, in 
the hearing or knowledge of all the kingdom. Imo- 
gen's beautiful patience is thoroughly ruffled, for the 
moment, by the perfidious and unmanly conduct of 
Posthumus. Hermione does not resist the evil pur- 
poses of her husband by so much as a frown. He 
does not find it possible to goad her into „ 

^ o Hermione 

recalcitrant feeling against him. He loses resists not 
in consequence the support and sympathy ^^' ' 
of his lords, and his own self-respect. He is discom- 
fited, disarmed, humiliated. We cannot very confi- 
dently explain the secret of Hermione's triumph, or 
declare the philosophy of such a rout. Examples 
of the like have been too few for study. We remem- 
ber that a great master of human wisdom once pre- 
scribed such a course as Hermione has pursued, and 
by it indeed rose to the chief place in human history. 
It seems clear that from evil when as here unresisted, 
not for the glorification of the saint, but from pity of 
the sinner, indeterminate power for good may spring. 
It is thus evident that we have in Hermione a 
study of character in important respects supplemental 
to Imogen ; and there are reasons for supposing it a 
later creation. It is not at all likely that Shakespeare 
intended to dramatise an important doctrine from the 
Sermon on the Mount. He is not attempting to com- 
pose a religious play. He may indeed have been all 
unaware that the principle on which he built Hermi- 
one's greatness was other than a fundamental law of 
human nature. He was just finishing his career as a 



136 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

dramatic artist, and could have scarcely been con- 
The in- ccrned, more than in Cymbeline, about the 
fluence of popularity of the piece. In no dramas 
on s^imker beside has he allowed such incongruities 
speare's and absurditics of plot as in these two. Did 

lences. ^^ coarse watermen and street loafers under- 
stand what was put before them in the impersona- 
tions of Hermione and Perdita and Imogen } We 
may reasonably doubt whether the acting showed 
these women as fully as we have had them revealed 
to us. But the Globe and the Blackfriars could not 
surely have been ill places to go to, if there and there 
alone in England and all Christendom were the influ- 
ences that we have been experiencing, from these 
characters, supplied in a literary way. No such 
womanhood as Hermione's or Imogen's had been por- 
trayed before, nor has seemingly the counterpart of 
either been conceived or painted since. Imogen's 
childlike, spontaneous feminine nature, which she 
does not repress, is supremely beautiful. But Her- 
mione's character, in its saintly faith and Christly 
self;represgion, touches the heights of the sublime. 

In Shakespeare's dramas there is always a subjec- 
tive climax at the middle of the third act ; such 
The out- events are placed or shaped there as enable 
come pre- ^g |;q divine the outcome of the play. We 

figured at . 

the middle are surc, for mstance, here that the Queen 
of a play, ^yi Yvi^, that the child will be brought back, 
and that Hermione will be reconciled to her husband. 
But we must not rate this prefigurement of the plot 
issue as of large importance. The play that we have 



THE WINTER'S TALE 1 37 

in hand is not a play of incident. It makes little 
difference, as such, whether Hermione sustains the 
revelation of her husband's baseness, or succumbs 
to it. The lesson of her constancy and largeness of 
soul proceeds with us in either outcome equally. 
She is endowed and prepared to achieve a singularly 
beautiful and complete existence. Shakespeare rec- 
ognised that only such are fittest to survive, and has 
made her live; though the heroine of Greene's novel 
has no such fortune. By the offices of Paulina, the 
Queen, who does not wish to see her husband, is 
kept apart from the palace. By dint of certain jug- 
gling, for which she is not responsible, and which we 
need not be curious about, she is reported dead, and 
ostensibly carried to her grave in public funeral ; 
and Leontes is allowed, for years following, to show 
his grief daily at her monument. 

This part of the plot is surely far from pleasing ; 
and were it not for the importance of the personality 
that it is used to reveal, would have proved wholly 
unacceptable. To some expounders and critics, who 
have apparently not discovered what the play was 
written for, it has seemed absurd. Shakespeare 
could undoubtedly have devised a better scheme. 
Yet, when we have come to know his conception 
of Hermione, we are not so sure that he rj.^^ ^^^_ 
would have exchanged it, under any circum- lime not 
stances, for one that we should call a better, t^rlcdve^" 
There is no chain of causation here of the with the 
kind that was found in Cymbcline. Hermi- 
one has no such influence on those surrounding her as 



138 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Imogen exerts, because no one with power to aid her 
has understood her. The lords have divined some- 
thing of her nature, so have her women, but both 
are powerless to change her fate. Mamillius has 
discerned her best, in his degree, but that under- 
standing has cost him his life. The husband is 
wholly incapable of recognising the differences be- 
tween her and any other woman, with equal beauty, 
of half her worth. She has not indeed discovered 
or understood herself ; such natures never do. The 
most saintly and complete in character and living 
Hermione are Icast aware of the truth and nobleness 
a lone and ^^^ charity that make them different from 

solitary J 

figure. their fellows. Hermione is pathetically lone 
and solitary in her greatness, and this it is that has 
well-nigh wrought her martyrdom. But she does 
not know the source of her misfortunes. Only the 
author, and the reader whom he lends eyes to see, 
understand her secret. 

The great-souled live mainly, perforce, apart, in 
the solitudes of their own being. Imogen spent 
most of the hours of her work and waiting, in the 
play called Cymbelhie, with no one to share or en- 
hance her inmost living. Even Posthumus, restored, 
will approach but distantly to her true self, and will 
fall far short of completing her existence, though 
she will never know. An Emerson is at best but 
a good Hstener ; he cannot be social in his seership. 
So a deeply spiritual nature, except it give itself to 
public utterance or ministerings, as Hermione can- 
not, will fail of appreciation and may be grossly 



THE WINTER'S TALE 1 39 

misapprehended. Hermione has grown up from 
girl to woman in a fascinating, but strange Hermi- 
reserve. Her quantum of personality has ""JfJii,^^" 
attracted to her a wooer ; she has been reserve. 
wedded, and made a queen. But there is nothing 
in this which has merged her real existence, or mate- 
rially enlarged it. It is the curse of such natures, 
men as well as women, that they overestimate the 
spiritual wealth of other people, and seldom wed 
where they shall grow. Hermione has become a 
mother, and yet her best of living has been apart 
from her children. She is not unmotherly, but the 
motherhood in her is not paramount, and does not 
subordinate or absorb her Hfe. Leontes, expecting 
perhaps a partner that should be centred in himself, 
has missed the wifehood and motherhood that can- 
not be. He finds in Hermione a sufficiency and 
dignity that seem to leave him, her lord and husband, 
supernumerary, and this furnishes him with a griev- 
ance. When he has observed that this very superior 
wife of his has become an object of interest to his 
friend, he is betrayed into seizing it as an occasion 
to subordinate her, and humiliate her, and usurp her 
eminence, though he knows there has been no guilt. 
A queen of an intellectual and spiritual stature no 
greater than his own would have furnished no occa- 
sion for misunderstandings. 

The limitations of the plot, as the necessity of a 
Perdita born after the opening of the play, and be- 
trothed long before its close, are the most serious that 
Shakespeare anywhere grapples with, and with an 



140 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

inferior heroine would have spoiled the play. There 
are sixteen years of waiting to which the reader must 
be conciHated, and for which some sort of artistic 
justification must be devised. To have Hermione 
stay away from her husband, for this period, in anger 
or from mere spite, would of course spoil all. Her- 
Hermione "lione has no vindictive feeling, no least 
not unwiii- dcsirc to cxact suffering from him in propor- 
tufn 'to'^'her ^ion to the suffering he has brought on her. 
husband. She docs not propose to forgive and forget, 
for the matter Hes not in her choice. " The King 
shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not 
found." The meaning of the gods to her is plain : 
she must not return to her husband until her 
daughter is brought back to her. She who resists 
not evil by so much as a word, a look, can await 
with the same infinite patience the higher will. The 
sublime truth in her character shines out again (V. iii., 
123-128) in her words, after the dehverance, to Per- 
dita : — 

Tell me, mine own, 
Where hast thou been preserv'd, where liv'd, how found 
Thy father's court ? For thou shalt hear that I, 
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle 
Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv'd 
Myself to see the issue. 

And sixteen years to such a woman, as grand and 
unwavering as Athene herself, are as a little space, 
as a watch in the night. So the absurdities of a plot 
may become its power. 

Cymbcline appears in the Folio of 1623 in the Hst 
of tragedies, while The Winter s Tale is entered as a 



THE WINTER'S TALE 14t 

comedy. Neither of these plays appears to have 
been printed earlier. It is probable that this distinc- 
tion, which it has been the fashion to retain, was 
ordained by Shakespeare on the production of the 
plays. There seems at first small reason to account 
The Winter' s Tale as more comedial, except y,^^ ^^.^_ 
for the part of Autolycus, and of the satyr ter's TaU 
dancers at the sheep-shearing festival. Some ^^ comedy. 
discussion of other differences will be attempted later 
We might imagine that Imogen was born of nearer 
sympathies than the rival heroine, except for the sur- 
passingly tender close of TJie Winter's Tale. We 
find manifested here the same gentleness and char- 
ity, as in Cyjnbeline, toward the men of the play, 
who, not excepting Florizel, are again a sorry lot. 
The presence of the second Hermione, in the person 
of her grown-up daughter, in the fourth act, adds 
an idyllic charm. We could have wished the treat- 
ment of Perdita reserved for another play. She is 
perforce subordinated to her mother, and is with- 
drawn from our sight at the close with many unde- 
veloped residues of strength and goodness. 

We seem admitted to something like a vision of 
Shakespeare's mysterious and evasive personality 
when he begins to paint a Perdita or Miranda. 
There is a beautiful optimism in his spirit a vision of 
and in his working which makes everything shake- 

speare's 

abroad seem sweetened and transfigured, person- 
We feel that he has secrets of life which ^'"y- 
we might win from him, and with them make this 
old world young. Yet we are persuaded that the 



142 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

world is a good place to live in as it is. We believe 
more in ourselves, finding that we are not so cheap 
and paltry and insignificant as we have thought. 
Yet Shakespeare's great women do not strive or cry 
or agonise after unattained or unattainable ideals. 
They do not preach or patronise, being just as inno- 
cent of their high estate and how they came by it 
as we of ours. They are suns severally of their social 
systems, and the men revolve about them as satel- 
lites. They are manifestations, in Shakespeare's 
view, of the divine, by which God administers him- 
self to the world and uplifts man and society at large 
to nobler living. And the divine, Shakespeare seems 
to say, never coerces or repels, but charms, allures, 
by its sovereignty of nature. 

We are interested, of course, in comparing the 
grown-up daughter, for whom the plot has been 
delayed, with Hermione her mother. We discern in 
Perdita be- Perdita little of her father's quality. She 
mion" and' l^^ks somcwhat of her mother's strength ; 
Imogen. there is less of the sublime and more of 
beauty in her nature. We may say that she stands 
midway between Hermione and Imogen. The author 
makes us know her by photographing her in a series 
of situations, all false ones, and as taxing and unfair 
as the role accepted by her mother when she was 
set the task of detaining Polyxenes by her husband. 
Perdita has grown up in the home of the shepherd, 
without suspicion of her rank, and has found her life 
large enough and promising enough, in spite of its 
distance from the great world. Florizel, son of King 



THE WINTER'S TALE IV. iv I43 

Polyxenes, chancing to follow his falcon across the 
shepherd's pastures, which have been increased by 
the use of the foundling's treasure to almost fabulous 
holdings, has seen her and been drawn to woo her 
by her strange dignity and grace. He has repre- 
sented himself, under the name of Doricles, as the 
owner of a great sheep-farm like her father's. He 
is shown to us, at the opening of scene iv, in a shep- 
herd's frock, put on over his court doublet, while he 
has persuaded Perdita to appear in costly robes and 
finery brought from the palace. She has deferred 
to her lover's wishes, but finds no pleasure in ele- 
gance that belies her station and forces her to out- 
shine the shepherd girls and swains, whom she is 
waiting to receive as guests at the sheep-shearing 
festival. 

Thus is the son of Polyxenes characterised to us 
at the outset by his willingness to exploit his inamo- 
rata before her friends. For his part, he affects a 
costume much more foreign to his character than 
hers to her. Florizel is a thoroughly pastoral person- 
age, as his name betokens, but of the sort begotten 
by poetry and not by sheepfolds. He is a very proper 
young man, free wholly from vices incident to courts, 
but a little flighty and pedantic in some conceptions of 
common things. * You are,' he affirms to Perdita, — 

no shepherdess, but Flora 
Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing 
Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
And you the queen on't. 

But more exactly, Florizel is used, as all the men in 



144 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

both plays have been used, to speed the treatment 
of the heroine in hand. 

So the author, wishing first to try Perdita, before 
us, as mistress of the feast, makes her foster-mother 
to have died since last year's festival. He wishes 
us to see what resources, what self-assertion, his 
Queen's daughter can summon for the part that she 
is called to play. There is a bashful company of 
country folk to welcome and manage, and she has 
Perdita no bolducss bcyoud the least of her com- 
ownTociri P3-i^ions to Stand her in stead. There are 
forms. no conventionalities behind which she may 
mask herself ; she must make her own social forms 
and phrases. The presence of Florizel, as her lover, 
without the disposition to aid her with her guests, 
but with all confidence that she will entertain them 
" sprightly," does not lessen her embarrassment. 
Before she has conceived her role, her father, him- 
self not well knowing what should be done, covers 
his insufficiency by scolding her for her silence and 
delay. To add to the burdens of the moment, two 
strangers, evidently of no mean station, are brought 
to her notice as demanding hospitable attention. 
She addresses herself at once to these, and, in default 
of better compliment, gives them flowers that suit well 
with their apparent years. The strangers, who are 
Polyxenes and Camillo, disguised as old men, affect 
to be displeased with the " flowers of winter " that 
she has given them. Perdita very prettily attempts 
to mend her blunder, and the King leads her into 
argument, that he may sound her wit. She admits 



THE WINTER'S TALE IV. iv 145 

his logic, but refuses the personal conclusion. He 
has touched her convictions, and put her in posses- 
sion of her strength. From this moment the Her- 
mione nature in her rules the company. /Camillo 
ventures a court compliment, which he perhaps 
assumes will upset her and make her silly, but she 
meets him with a subordinating answer. Turning 
from the great gentlemen, whom she has welcomed, 
according to her own interpretation of first principles, 
in a wholly original and queenly way, she greets 
(11. II 2- 1 29) her girl friends from the neighbouring 
farmhouses, half lost in the exercise of her rare in- 
sight into the world of beauty : — 

Now, my fair'st friend, 
I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might 
Become }'our time of day; and yours ; and yours. O Proserpina, 
For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall 
From Dis's wagon ! Daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty. Violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes. 
Or Cytherea's breath. Pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength. Bold oxlips, and 
The crown imperial. Lilies of all kinds. 
The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack. 
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, 
To strew /lim o'er and o'er. 

With such refinement of spirit, such vision, Per- 
dita cannot but win Camillo to her side. Polyxenes 
will not, of course, admit the evidence of her worth, 
finding her mistress of but a herdsman's home. To 
him a princess can be no princess except as con- 

L 



146 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

stituted by pedigree and environment. But Shake- 
Shake- speare's lesson of rank is plain, and is made 
spearenot g^j^j plainer later on by satire. Neither 

of aristo- '^ ■' 

cratic sym- Leontes nor Polyxenes can by any possibil- 
pathies. -^y ^g royal. There are no kingly folk save 
such as have kingly minds, and live princely lives. 
Shakespeare is inferred to have been of aristocratic 
sympathies. The talk of the shepherd and the 
clown, in the second scene of the Fifth Act, over 
their elevation to the Sicilian peerage, should have 
answered the question for all time. 

The author now draws away the young people of 
the company, to close the situation, that he may 
exhibit the grace of Perdita, dancing with the court- 
trained Florizel, in contrast with the rustic move- 
ments of the rest. Autolycus comes in singing, and 
exposing the flashy contents of his pack, and the 
farm girls are all agog over his gewgaws. Perdita 
keeps aloof, not because she is wearing more sub- 
stantial finery, but for the reason that the amenities 
and satisfactions of her living belong to a different 
plane. She has been brought up with gross- 
mouthed kitchen wenches, yet the pedler is fore- 
warned to sing no scurrilous ballads in her hearing. 
Then comes the moment when the plot must turn, 
Perdita not and bear Perdita away from the sphere 
intimidated ^]^gj.g g^g j^^g shown her strength so well. 

King. In Polyxenes the author has the forces 

ready. The King has been made weak enough to 
lose his temper over the proposed precontract, and 
fling out, leaving nothing but commands between the 



THE WINTER'S TALE IV. iv 1 47 

lovers and their will. Perdita is also to be tried by 
his threats to efface her beauty and put her to death 
by torture. She realises the position, in relation to 
the kingdom and the succession, into which she has 
been unwittingly drawn. But she will not be intimi- 
dated by a king who will so abuse his power. The 
charge that she has bewitched the prince, knowing 
fully who he was, she (11. 451-456) ignores com- 
pletely. 

Even here undone. 
I was not 7nuch afeared. For once or twice 
I was about to speak and tell him plainly 
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court 
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
Looks on all alike. 

She looks timidly at Florizel, who seemingly in hesi- 
tation for the moment makes no effort to reassure 
her, and begs him to be gone. There are no words 
of reproach for the disappointment he has caused ; 
he must take care of his prospects at any cost to her. 
Her shepherd father denounces her, echoing the 
King's charges, as the author of the doom he must 
quickly meet. But she shows no indignation or im- 
patience, or indeed sorrow ; for she seems to have 
faith, like her mother's, that injustice cannot prevail. 
When no course is open but flight with her lover, 
which Carrtillo's disloyalty to his friend makes prac- 
ticable, she does not hesitate from fear of Florizel's 
future or her own. She seems governed, for her 
part, by some indeterminate consciousness of her right 
to be a queen. And her lover's caprice of having 
her decked out in the robes of a court lady prepares 



148 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

her for fitting entry to her father's presence and 
admiration. 

The part of Perdita as a second heroine is finished 
here. When Hermione is given back to us, there 

,.j . must be no rivalry, not even the most dis- 
kneeiing to tant, for our attention. We could have 
her mother, g^gggg^j^ howcvcr, that Shakespeare would 
not fail to bring the mother and her long-lost daugh- 
ter together, before us, in some artistic situation that 
would be exalting to them both. It is an entrancing 
moment when this country-bred maiden, who has never 
seen art collections before, or shared the company 
of great lords and ladies, kneels before Hermione 
in Paulina's resplendent chapel. What influences 
draw her to this homage the author does not reveal. 
But he has made us sure that she could not have ren- 
dered such tribute to a painted statue, and that she 
could not have withheld it in the real presence of 
the Queen who had borne the burdens of calumny, 
imprisonment, and seclusion so grandly for her sake. 

But we cannot pretend to canvass the essential 
meanings of The Winter s Tale. We have gone far 
enough to descry its art, and to identify of what sort 
were the forces in the mind that wrought it. A 
proper realisation of its art expedients and elements 
and its deeper lessons must be left to the aspiring 
reader to accomplish for himself. As has been ob- 
served, it is peculiarly his right, in the search for 
such knowledge and mastery, to be left alone. The 
Outlines in the Appendix seem all that may be 
offered, without impertinence, for his aid. 



IV 

ROMEO AND JULIET 

It has long been recognised that a man's sphitual 
stature is registered in his fellowship with the True, 
and in his reverence for the noblest examples what 
of his mother's sex. We have seen what Shake- 
Shakespeare was in these respects when he in younger 
had reached the age of forty-five years and authorship. 
upwards. We are anxious to know of what sort he 
was when he began his literary and dramatic career, 
and how far he was then capable of controlling his 
reader's sympathies by literary art. We unfortu- 
nately lack evidence of the kind required touching an 
age so early. The first play that may be profitably 
examined is the Romeo ajid Juliet, which is believed 
to have been completed considerably before his 
thirtieth year. 

Shakespeare borrowed the characters and outline 
of this tragedy, as is well known, from Brooke's 
RomcHS and Juliet ; but his indebtedness to Shake- 
this and its originals is much less than is ^^^^'to^ 
usually supposed. Brooke's narrative, read Brooke, 
in the light of Shakespeare's product, is raw and 
colourless, with little characterisation, and almost 
no genuine interpretation of hfe. It is one thing to 
take an incident from bare annals, and expand it, in 

149 



150 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

flowing Alexandrines, into literary language. It is 
a very different thing to supply omitted elements, 
distribute and differentiate the characters, and inau- 
gurate the whole as an integral exhibit of pulsing, 
energised humanity. The man who supplies the life 
could probably have devised the incidents, the plot, 
had he so willed; for the greater in these matters 
certainly includes the less. Moreover, Brooke seems 
to have had small acquaintance with the people 
among whom his tale is laid ; he is blunderingly 
innocent of the customs, folk-characteristics, the 
exquisite susceptibilities, the enthusiasms, and the 
dreamy fervour which are of the essence of the history 
he has to tell. Shakespeare lavishes strange lore of 
this sort, we know not whence, on all his Italian 
plays, conspicuously Othello and The Merchant of 
Venice, besides the present one, and everywhere 
exalts the idealism and refinement of that race, with 
its arts and accomplishments of social culture, as the 
noblest and fullest yet attained. It was materials 
and elements of this kind, which, added to Brooke, 
have made the Romeo mid Juliet possible. 

Our purpose will not permit us to follow the play 
further than the portraiture of Juliet, as reached at 
The artistic the plighting of her troth to Romeo. The 
the street^ pi^ce opcns with a brutal sword fight be- 
fray. tween the bravi, or hired rufiEians, of the 

rival houses of Capulet and Montague. Shake- 
speare's audiences were without knowledge of the 
truculence and persistency of old-time Italian feuds, 
or of the social and municipal conditions that made 



ROMEO AND JULIET I. i 151 

them possible. So he details the steps by which one 
of the inevitable combats is evolved. The street is 
roused, citizens turn out at a moment's warning, with 
clubs, to despatch the fighters, and the Prince, per- 
haps not unexpectant of such trouble, is quickly upon 
the scene. All this is illuminating as to the state of 
affairs in Verona, and in special as to the rankhng and 
truceless enmity that divides the households of the 
title characters, and their respective social followings. 
Benvolio, Romeo's friend, is on hand to help part 
the swordsmen. Tybalt, Juliet's cousin, is of no such 
temper, and improves the opportunity to have at one 
of the opposing faction. Romeo might have been in 
the fray, had he been given to knight-errantry of 
Tybalt's sort. But he has no wish to fight for fight- 
ing's sake, being of gentler instincts and perhaps 
finer breeding. For the Montagues seem such men- 
tal stuff as a Renaissance is made of, while the stock 
of the Capulets is of a somewhat harsher fibre. At 
any rate, Romeo is of the choicest blood of Italy, 
and gives his days and nights to tastes and associates 
that even Capulet gossip cannot condemn. But he 
has of late shunned his friends, penned himself 
up from daylight, and justified the suspicion that he 
may be ailing in his wits. His malady is, however, 
nothing but what is incident to spirits as rare as his, 
and shows itself at worst but in vigils and Romeo in 
sonnet-making; for in his brain Italian long- i^sldlaisof 
ings have begun to stir. A beautiful virgin love. 
spirit, worshipful of womanhood, he has loitered 
along the paths of fancy, in love with the possibili- 



152 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ties of love rather than with any concrete and true 
evincement of its power. He has seen Rosaline, and 
read his ideals into her face and mind. But they are 
not there, or he would pursue her, and woo her, and 
essay to melt her indifference after a more typic 
Italian fashion. 

A victim of ennui, unconsciously waiting for the 
fulfilment of conditions under which his passion shall 
blaze out, Romeo happens upon his opportunity. 
Capulet, a hale and fascinating gentleman, whose rich 
ancestors have made life for him an unbroken leisure, 
sends out a servant with invitations. He has neglected 
to select one who can read the names ; and Romeo 
chances to be the first pedestrian of that probable ac- 
complishment that is encountered upon the way. Had 
Romeo not been considerate and kindly, the true gen- 
tleman that we know, the events of the play might 
have been much hindered ; he would have answered 
the fellow with Tybalt snappishness, and sent him 
farther. Romeo treats him civilly, reads his list for 
him, and gains knowledge of the gathering at Capu- 
let's house, where, if he is minded to use the liberty 
of a mask, he may look once more on Rosaline. 

The next scene paints for us the first picture of 
Juliet. Her mother is a woman of half her husband's 
Lady Cap- years, shallow, conventional, spiritually un- 
uiet in developed. She does not seem to know very 

some awe n , . i , , i i i i 

of her well this daughter whom she has let the 
daughter, nursc bring up in her household, and mani- 
festly stands somewhat in awe of her sober, demure, 
and steadfast disposition. Paris has proposed himself 



ROMEO AND JULIET I. iii 1 53 

as a suitor. Juliet must be told ; and the mother 
approaches the task of conferring with her fourteen- 
year old daughter upon the topic of the affections 
with something like embarrassment. Brooke makes 
Juliet's age to have been sixteen ; Paynter's version 
of the same story, which Shakespeare must have seen, 
presents her as two years older. Shakespeare cor- 
rects both the one and the other English, or Northern, 
numeral, according to physiological verities, by sub- 
stituting the proper Italian one. The heroine at least 
shall be fancy free, and unwakened yet to the signifi- 
cance of love. 

The art of portraying character consists mainly in 
making the given subject do or say such things as are 
potential and illuminating concerning the r^.^^ ^ ^ , 
complete and habitual personality. Thus, character 
Tybalt's thrust at Benvolio, in the first scene, ^^"^^^s- 
makes us understand that ruffian thoroughly for the 
residue of the play. It is possible to select vitally 
symptomatic things, which shall put the reader into 
potential acquaintanceship with the past and the fu- 
ture of the character considered. Lady Capulet is not 
made here to seek her daughter out, to talk love-mat- 
ters, in the confidences of a mother's closet ; though 
an Hermione would have communed with a Perdita in 
that way. This woman sends the nurse to call her 
daughter to her. 

The nurse, again, is characterised to us vividly by 
the words which make up the first line she utters. It 
besides reveals to us in a flash that she is an Italian, 
and not an English serving-woman. Called into the 



154 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

home as nurse for the nonce of this Juliet, she has 
stayed on, filling the mother's place, and administer- 
ing moral nurture. Shakespeare needs to make us 
know, at the outset, among what influences and sur- 
roundings this flower of purity has grown. 

Juliet, in turn, is made to answer what shall be 
imaginatively suggestive of her nature: 'Madam, I 
Juliet's ^^ here. What is your will ? ' No great 
strength of foudncss or Sympathy exists between mother 
c aracer. ^^^ daughter, and it is not the daughter's 
fault. There is quantitatively more character al- 
ready, in the daughter, more seriousness and strength, 
than in the make-up of the mother. Lady Capulet 
sends the nurse away, but, quickly realising that the 
conversation will be strained, calls her back to help 
fill up the silences. The nurse, for her part, discloses 
immediately, by her appropriation of the conversa- 
tion, and spinning out unimportant details, in Dame 
Quickly fashion, how she has magnified her offices 
and enlarged her sphere. Some characterisation of 
Juliet is accomplished also through the nurse's talk. 
By the accident of her reference to Juliet's maturity, 
Lady Capulet finds her clue. ' Tell me, daughter 
Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married ? ' 
Juliet's reply, as we might have guessed, indicates a 
mind not yet confident or conscious of charms, not 
like Romeo's in love with love, withal self-poised, 
replete with the seriousnesses of living that come, all 
the world over, to demure maiden minds. There is, 
besides, we may suspect, something of the reticence or 
indeed unfrankness that, in matters of the affections, 



ROMEO AND JULIET I. in 1 55 

seems to thrive equally under Southern as under North- 
ern suns. 

Naturally enough, the nurse, with her doubtful 
domestic history, applauds Juliet's notion of the 
' honour ' of being married. The attempt of the 
mother to recommend to her daughter the idea, on 
general grounds, of having a husband, is pitiable. 
It is certain that Juliet has given her thus far no 
anxiety about lovers. And then her absurd praise 
of Paris, — 

Verona's summer hath not such a flower, — 

is of a kind that neither Paris nor any sort of virile 
wooer would have held it flattery to hear, and is 
scarcely matronly or motherly. Juliet remains silent 
while her mother and the nurse try to coax her into 
some degree of recognition of Paris's eligibility. Her 
impressions of Paris are no doubt definite enough, and 
it is perhaps not easy to say, as she does say in effect, 
that she will give him the best chance she can. Of 
one thing she is sure, — she will in no wise allow her- 
self to be attracted further, after the manner of incon- 
siderate and undutiful daughters, than her mother 
vouchsafes consent. Juliet thinks this altogether a 
safe promise, supposing Paris alone in question. But 
she will break it beautifully all the same, and with 
about as much regret and recklessness as if to elude 
a mother's vigilance were her chief employment. 
There is no truer maid in Italy, though she is not an 
Imogen. And yet, after Cymbeline yielded to the 
new Queen's will, did not Imogen deceive ? 



156 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Romeo and Benvolio, this time with several of their 
friends, flanked by torch-bearers and pages, appear 
_. again in the following or fourth scene. We 

ofaMer- wondcr at the length of the dialogue, which 
*^""°' seems at first but to delay the action. We 

then note that in the stage direction. Enter Romeo, 
Mercutio, and Benvolio, there is a nearer friend at 
Romeo's side. The point of it all, or at least the main 
one, is the brilliant and voluble conversation of Mer- 
cutio. Our hero has seemed unresponsive, heavy, 
untypical. Mercutio makes good what we miss in 
him, and fascinates us by his imagination. 

The little group of young Itahan gentlemen sets 
out, to the strokes of the drum, for the palace of 
Juliet's father. No such bright and fashionable com- 
pany, we may be sure, is abroad to-night on Verona 
streets. We are taken in advance of their arrival, by 
the opening of scene v, to the house of the Capulets. 
The servants hurry about, and the musicians are in 
waiting, in the great hall. This introduction to the 
home, while the host delays, will enable us to give 
our attention wholly to the guests, when they shall 
appear. Capulet soon brusquely enters, with Juliet 
as acting hostess, and puts the company at once in 
perfect humour. His Italian volubility, and gestures, 
and repetitions, — 

'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone, — 

individualise him vividly. 

Romeo has seen Juliet, and her staid brow and sub- 
dued enjoyment of the scene are fascinating to his 



ROMEO AND JULIET I. v 1 57 

melancholic mood. She is beautiful, and she is grave ; 
the high seriousness and imaginative refinement of 
her nature are rarely blended. Here is his affinity, 
his ideal ; his affection changes from an inner vision 
to a concrete, evinced reality. In the flickering, incon- 
stant Hght of the torches he traces out each feature, 
and finds the divine idea of -beauty on which she is 
planned complete. She is dancing with some swain, 
— not Paris, who is not mentioned, and seems to 
have kept bashfully aloof, and Romeo waits till the 
measure shall be finished. He has sought no part- 
ner, and, being a torch-holder, is in proximity to no 
one who might tell him who she is. The serving- 
man, of whom he makes inquiry, naturally does not 
know of whose family she is ; and Romeo gives way 
to his interpretative and realising thoughts : — 

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! 
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear ; 
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! 
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. 
The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, 
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. 
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight ! 
For 1 ne'er saw beauty till this night. 

His domino conceals his face ; but his voice, which 
is deep and musical, and his figure, mark him to 
Tybalt as of the Montagues. The old hate blazes 
out. Tybalt would have set upon him, and despatched 
him then and there, defenceless and unsuspecting, 
but for the veto of his uncle. Thus the motive for 



158 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Tybalt's later challenge to Romeo, and for the insult 
that Mercutio will decHne to tolerate, is introduced. 

While Capulet quiets Tybalt, with difficulty keep- 
ing his own rage from blazing out in the face of his 
guests, the music has stopped, and Romeo, giving 
up his torch, bends his steps through the press to 
Juliet's side. He is of fine presence and stature, 
gracefully proportioned, and the deep seriousness 
of his brow tells of high thoughts and infinite devo- 
tion. Juliet reads him instantly, and gains the vision 
of his ideals and worth. Here is the knight who, 
to her, is tender and strong, and pure and true. It 
makes little difference what such souls who have 
seen each other say. Words are hieroglyphics that 
the vulgar, who overhear, cannot divine. Romeo 
takes her by the hand. All his dreaminess, and far- 
off, impracticable worship are gone from his mind. 
He is at his best of cleverness and grace : — 

If I profane with my unworthiest hand 

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this : 

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand 

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. 

Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, 
Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; 
For saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch. 
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. 

Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? 

Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer, 

O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do : 
They pray. Grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. 

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. 



ROMEO AND JULIET I. v 1 59 

This is not very skilful, this hint that she shall 
make no stir, whatever happens. But Juliet is young, 
and innocent of all less open wiles that expert and 
practised charmers know. Grant White believes that 
JuHet here has been contriving to be drawn into a 
corner, that there may be no escape from Romeo's 
conclusion. This heavy-handed comment seems of 
value, but only in support of the contrary idea. White 
has in mind Juliets of another sort, and there are 
such, who would proceed, after the fashion that he 
affirms, in the case of any Romeo, and forget him in 
half an hour, jit is one thing to be in love with a 
whole sex, but quite another to be in love with a 
single example of it ; and Juliet is the last woman in 
the world to think, mischievously, of trying to make 
a conquest. Lady Capulet at this point calls Juliet 
away, and Romeo, who has not yet removed his 
mask, is not recognised by her. Juliet, who has not 
fully seen his face, has heard his voice, and will know 
her lover by that, though she were separated from 
him for half a lifetime. 

Of course much in this meeting of the lovers is 
left to the acting. If the stage Romeo and Juliet 
feel and look the characters that they represent, there 
is not much difficulty in playing the respective parts. 
No exterior grace or archness will make up for the 
profound psychology on which Shakespeare founds 
both title characters. Theirs is no common physical 
attraction, each to other. When Juliet is released 
from the social task imposed by her mother, the 
young men have taken leave of their host and are 



r 



VV 



l60 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

departing. Aided by something of the reserve appar- 
ent in the interview with her mother and the nurse, 
she now inquires out who is the guest that charms 
her. She has faith in her vision of his sincerity, and 
feels in her heart that he is not married. But she is 
of Gothic temperament, and must look on the dark 
side first. If it prove that he is not for her, if he 
have a wife already, then will love be shut out for- 
ever from her life, and life itself will not be long. 
Romeo and his companions have probably, on with- 
drawing, raised their masks, and the identity of each 
is known. So the nurse brings knowledge that he is 
not married, but that he is a Montague. The result 
is but a change in Juliet's seriousness. 

My only love sprung from my only hate ! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late ! 
Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 
That I must love a loathed enemy. 

Juliet has never loved before ; her life, like a 
George Eliot's, or Maggie Tulliver's, has been too 
sombre and severe. That we can understand. But 
why has she hated? That is the Italian something 
that we cannot well understand. Every Capulet 
hates all the Montagues, with perfect Southron 
hatred, and each child, from inherited enmity and 
from nurture, hates with the full hatred of its father. 
To administer the element of time, most important 
here, Shakespeare has the Chorus of the Earlier 
Drama come out and occupy the stage. The author 
must bring the lovers to their understanding within 



ROMEO AND JULIET l6l 

the compass of a hundred and sixty lines, a feat 
scarcely achieved elsewhere, and must make to him- 
self friends of all the accessories and expedients of 
stage tradition. To have late events rehearsed, and 
new ones interpreted beforehand, by a stage personi- 
fication, interposes a signal experience between our 
first seeing the lovers and their next appearance, and 
psychologically retards the resumption of the plot. 
Shakespeare uses a similar expedient, to the same 
effect, when he makes Old Father Time come in, 
with scythe and hourglass, at the opening of Act IV 
in The Winter s Tale, and explain the omission of 
sixteen years. The effect is also, of course, in some 
measure to assist credulity. 

Anglo-Saxon prejudices are apt to be stirred at the 
notion of love at first sight. It seems based on noth- 
ing but the most superficial attractions, and xhe itai- 
holds in itself the promise of little but disil- >ansnota 

, . , , , . . fickle, in- 

lusion and repentance. Moreover, it is a constant 
common assumption that the Italian nature '■^'^^• 
is fickle and shallow, and that the loves of a Juliet 
and Romeo, if uninterrupted, could have proved but 
fleeting, and owe their intensity to nothing but the 
suddenness of passion. There is probably no remedy 
for such ignorance and race conceit but travel and 
sojourn among the misjudged people. It does not 
help much to affirm abstractly that the Italian is at 
his best not an inconstant creature, falling in love, — 
as we are reminded Romeo did, — with every pretty 
face, but quite the contrary. Love is founded upon 
imaginative recognition and conception of high quail- 



l62 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ties of worth and nobleness. It is not essential that 
a Romeo's eye dwell upon the signs of such noble- 
ness and worth continuously, for weeks and months, 
before discerning what they stand for, and respond- 
ing to their challenge. Such might be the course of 
love, were the signs doubtful, or the beauty and 
worth that they stand for partial, alloyed with baser 
elements. But to Romeo the soul of Juliet lies open 
at first view. Her clear seeing of spiritual verities, 
and consequent earnestness and frank sincerity, her 
wifely solicitudes and sweet devotion, her purity and 
self-subordination, are open secrets, and would have 
been as patent, and perhaps as potent, had they been 
looked on by Anglo-Saxon eyes. Typically the 
Italian Romeo is more acute and intense of vision 
than his Northern brother; and there are in his 
Juliet's eyes messages more soulful and transparent 
than can be read by the light of colder suns. While 
human nature is human nature everywhere in kind, 
there are beautiful and wonderful differences of de- 
gree. On the basis of these the author has con- 
structed the present play. 

Till the sight of Juliet, Romeo spent his days in 
sighing, and his nights in feverish and empty vigil. 
Rosaline was a symbol of his ideal toward which he 
was drawn to no personal approach. From Juliet he 
finds it impossible to go away. His group of mask- 
ers has reduced itself, before reaching the lane or 
alley beside the great Capulet enclosure, to Mercutio 
and Benvoho ; and from these advancing with the 
torch-bearers, whom he has now sent forward, he 



ROMEO AND JULIET II. I 163 

slips aside into the alley. Before his friends have 
fairly missed him from sight, he has climbed the wall 
and leaped within. In the first situation, our hero 
was subordinated to Benvolio, who discoursed with 
concern of his late behaviour. On the advent of 
Mercutio, Romeo seemed infelicitous and heavy in 
comparison. But now, as the one and the other call 
after Romeo vainly in the dark, we find our interest 
and sympathies transferred. Benvolio is staunch, 
well-meaning, clean of lips and life, altogether such a 
companion as a Romeo would attract and attach in 
friendship to himself. Mercutio is livelier, but less 
substantial, and perhaps of less prestige socially, and 
seems rather to have selected himself than to have 
been selected, in Romeo's following. When he hits 
off Romeo's boyish devotion to Rosaline so cleverly, 
we of course applaud : — 

Romeo ! humours ! madman ! passion ! lover ! 
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh ! 
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied. 
Cry but ' Ay me ! ' Pronounce but ' love ' and * dove '; 
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, 
One nickname for her purblind son and heir, 
Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim, 
When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid. — 
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not. 
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. 

Yet the dehverance reacts in Romeo's favour. Mer- 
cutio, we admit, is clever ; but he is not lofty-minded. 
He has seen the world, and affects to despise such an 
attachment as Romeo, he believes, is forming. We 



1 64 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

prefer Romeo's virile innocence to all Mercutio's 
wayward wisdom. The young man who will speak 
of his friend's inamorata lightly, with insult to her 
womanhood, has lost the token of true manliness.^ 
We shall find the equilibrium between him and 
Romeo still more completely shifted, and of purpose, 
as the play proceeds. 

As his friends withdraw, Romeo looks at the win- 
dows along the side of the palace, hoping to divine 
what ones are Juliet's. At the instant she has en- 
tered her chamber, and is lighting the tapers, which 
reveal her outline, and shining out to him draw his 
steps toward her. Immediately his romantic imagi- 
nation is kindled to its best strength of interpretative 
vision. What he utters is hardly in the dialect of an 
EngHsh lover, but may be taken as indicative of the 
Italian energy and activity of his mind. JuHet has 
just come from the dismissing of the guests below, 
with the identity of Romeo still in her mind. Ad- 
vancing from the yet uncooled air of the chamber to 
the open window, she gives way to the sigh, till now 
suppressed, ' that her only love should have sprung 
from her only hate.' But the tones of Romeo's voice 
yet ring in her mind, and have made her suspect it 
possible to hate unjustly. Romeo of course cannot 
guess what is in her thoughts, but his fancy gets new 
quickening, as is seen in the images that now shape 
themselves to his lips : — 

^ In studies of Shakespeare's art, only complete and unexpurgated 
texts should be used. Points like the present one will otherwise be 
missed. 



ROMEO AND JULIET II. ii 165 

O speak again, bright angel ! For thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head. 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

There is a little silence, and then is heard, as said 
musingly, and in confidence to herself : — 

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo ? 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; 
Or, if thou zuili not, be but sworn my love. 
And ril no longer be a Capulet. 

Juliet is dropping the plummet deep down in her 
soul, and is finding strange soundings there. She 
feels that she can give up her dear home, with all its 
elegance and happy memories, she can go away from 
her father and her friends, and even renounce the 
proud name of Capulet, all because of an uncontrol- 
lable passion to yield and merge herself in sacrifice 
and devotion to this prince, this deity who has so 
suddenly revealed himself to her. The Juliet of a 
higher latitude makes these discoveries more slowly, 
and feels it well to enter into contention, get comfort 
from the losing battle against their power. Juliet 
discerns the will of nature, and allies herself with it 
sweetly. But Romeo, — what can Romeo know of 
the forces that have wrought the change .'' Will he 
believe indeed that there has been a change .^ Will 
he think her shallow, conceive her capable of throw- 
ing herself into the arms of any other man who 
might address her amorously .'' He has read her 



l66 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

eyes, the deep meanings of her mind, too well for 
that. He would have wooed her timorously and 
long ; but now what shall he do ? Juliet's self-prob- 
ing and philosophising save him a decision : — 

'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
"What's Montague ? It is nor hand nor foot 
Nor arm nor face nor any other part 
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name ! 
Whales in a name ? That which we call a rose 
By any other natne would smell as sweet. 
So Romeo would, were he tiot Romeo call'd, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title. — Romeo, doff \.hy name, 
And for that name, which is tio part of thee, 
Take all tnyself 

Juliet, let us remember, is not pondering why she 
should wish to give up her maiden freedom, and 
belong to another more than to herself, but how it 
should be possible for her to resign herself to one 
of the hated house of Montague. Romeo is long 
past any trouble of that kind, for he is a man, and 
can but vaguely guess, in this moment of intoxica- 
tion, how tenaciously Juliet's feminine conversatism 
holds her to the past. But he will indeed deny his 
father, and refuse his name. 

I take thee at thy word. 
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd. 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 

By a name 
I know not how to tell thee who I am. 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee. 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 



ROMEO AND JULIET II. ii 167 

The victory was really won before Romeo spoke. 
Juliet is too practical to think of Romeo's involving 
himself in any trouble with his family on her account. 
She wishes to make all the renunciation, and is be- 
ginning to find it a joy to speak the once hated 
names : — 

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Romeo is filled with romantic ideals, and is gov- 
erned by them. Juliet has seen this, and loves him 
for it. JuHet's fancies do not fly so high, as she is 
of a matter-of-fact temper and constitution ; and 
Romeo loves her because her nature is complemental 
to his own. The real and the ideal are seen strangely 
in dialogue, as the twain now talk. Juliet asks in 
fond and wondering anxiousness, but Romeo answers 
valiantly, in the language of the clouds. All her 
utterances are wholly feminine in emphasis and dic- 
tion, while his are as truly masculine. She inquires 
first hoiv he came, and will he tell really why ? 

How cam'st thou thither, /e// me? and -wherefore? 
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen ^fwa' thee here. 

With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, 
For stony limits cannot hold love out. 
And what love can do that dares love attempt. 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 

If they do see thee, they will inurther thee. 

Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye 

Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, 

And I am proof against their enmity. 



1 68 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

I would not for the world they saw thee here. 

I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes. 
And but thou love me, let them find me here. 
My life were better ended by their hate. 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 

Attention has many times been called to the puns 
and other marks of immaturity in this play. But 
there are no puns or rhymings here. Was ever 
English used to more telling purpose } 

By whose direction found'st thou out this place? 

By love, that first did prompt me to inquire. 

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 

I am no pilot. Yet wert thou as far 

As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, 

I would adventure for such merchandise. 

While they have been talking in these strange 
interchanges of realism and romance, Juliet's intui- 
tions have been active with the practical aspects of 
the case. Romeo would have kept voicing his airy 
nothings till daylight, with never a thought of the 
Juliet plans loss of time. If they are to belong to each 
for both. other, there must be a plan. As Romeo 
seems in supreme content with things as they are, 
she must act for both. Since she has indicated 
objections to his family, while he has waived all 
unpleasant recollections of hers, it behooves her to 
show her generosity without delay. Then, too, she 
must excuse what Romeo has overheard, whether 
she make it worse or better. He will understand 
her like a god, and it will be sweet to confess herself 
to one who is so loftily in love. 



ROMEO AND JULIET II. ii 169 

Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment ! 
Do%t thou love me ? I know thou wilt say ay, — 
And I -will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear" st. 
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. O getitle Konuo, 
//"thou dost love, pronounce \\. faithfully ; 
Or, if thou think' St I am too quickly won, 
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay. 
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. 

Her dismay and pleading, when she realises again 
how much of her maidenly secret she has betrayed, 
are Imogen-like and rarely beautiful : — 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond. 
And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light. 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 

Romeo, by instinct, applies to her an equally formal 
designation, answering to her " gentleman," — 

Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. 

He would assure her of the utter fascination of her 
frankness, and of the eternal fidelity of his soul to a 
faith so childlike and complete. But she ^, 

^ 1 he power 

stops the words that she would joy much to of juUet's 
hear, because they are gratuitous and spring ^' ' 
from too much concern. She would hav^e Romeo as 
reposeful as herself : — 

O swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 



I/O WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

What shall I swear by? 

Do not swear at all; 
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry. 
And I'll believe thee. 

Such trust would lay hold on all that is sacred in 
manhood, and make an unworthy Romeo true. It 
is not a wilful, reckless venture, but her tribute to 
the nobleness of his mind. 

To Anglo-Saxon prudence the scene has seemed 
precipitate. Shakespeare must conciliate his reader 
How and remedy somewhat the haste. His best 

Shake- device will be to produce some impression 

speare al- . . , .... 

leviatesthe agam of prolonged time, as by multiplymg 
haste. .j-j^g reader's experiences between what may 

be called stages in the relations of the lovers. JuUet's 
sense of the suddenness of their attachment is first 
used. She thinks to withdraw, though no line of 
action that shall bring them again together seems yet 
developed before her mind. 

Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night. 
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden. 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good night ! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath. 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! As sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast ! 

I suspect our sympathies are with Romeo, who 
feels the incompleteness of the interview that he has 
so little helped to shape. He would like assurance 



ROMEO AND JULIET II. ii 1 71 

that a formal betrothment has been made before he 
goes away. In Juliet's feeling that has been done 
already. It is such a little thing, she must have 
him know, compared with the fathomless bounty 
that she would have all his. 

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? 

What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 

The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. 

I gave thee mine before thou didst request it, 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Wouldst thou withdraw it ? For what purpose, love ? 

But to he frank, and give it thee again. 

And yet I wish but for the thing I have. 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 

My love as deep : the more I give to thee 

The more / have, for both are infinite. 

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! — 

Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. 

Stay but a little, I will come again. 

To her the name of Montague, as she turns from 
him, is no longer * fair', as it had grown to be a few 
lines back ; it is even ' sweet.' The effect of the re- 
peated good-nights and adieus is beginning to seem 
like the registry of a much longer wooing. The call 
of the nurse is but another expedient to give perspec- 
tive to their acquaintanceship. When Juliet juiiefs 
returns, her mind is cleared, the vision of p'^"- 
their future has been made out. They must not risk 
another interview ; the least suspicion of their rela- 
tions would imprison them from each other's sight 



1/2 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

forever. They will wed secretly, and leave Verona, 
Romeo shall say whither : — 

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. 

If that thy bent of love be honourable. 

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 

By one that I'll procure to come to thee. 

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ; 

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, 

And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 

All the anxiety that should have been her mother's 
comes to her. If the price is too great, if Romeo 
will not make the sacrifice, let him advise her speed- 
ily. The nurse is made to call again, and urgently, 
and Romeo withdraws. Juliet has left nothing for 
him to do but make up his mind. Like Imogen's 
insistency with Pisanio, after Posthumus's letter call- 
ing her to Milford Haven, her woman's resolution 
carries all before it. 

But Imogen left out nothing from her plans ; the 
author makes Juliet forget to arrange with Romeo the 
hour. This is added to give them, in seeming, another 
interview. And of course, in the dramatic action, 
and the fresh glimpse of Juliet's mind, there is great 
gain besides to the scene. The philosophy of her 
thought, — 

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies. 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, 
With repetition of my Romeo's name, — 

is un-Anglican, yet wholly such as Desdemona and 
many another of Shakespeare's Italian women might 



ROMEO AND JULIET 11. ii 1 73 

compass by the way. It is well to be reminded of the 
strength and momentum of her intelligence. She 
sends her voice out hissingly after Romeo, who has 
fortunately retired but slowly. He presents himself 
beneath her, and she speaks down to him in a fresh, 
new, soulful salutation, ' Romeo,' that he cannot com- 
prehend as we do. That is now the name of names 
that she would not have him refuse. The scene 
apparently finds here its climax. She does not ask 
him if he has bethought himself ; the old faith has 
really never wavered. 

At what o'clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee ? 

The question asked, and answered, Juliet lingers, 
finding no reason why ; the moment has come when 
the woman in her ordains that she withdraw : — 

'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone, 
And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 
So loving-jealous of his liberty. 

I would I were thy bird. 

Sweet, so would /. 
Yet I should ki/l thee with much cherishing. 
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow. 
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. 

The same objectiveness is delectably present again, 
in the mode and substance of these rare lines. It 
seems clear what kind of imagination Shakespeare 
postulates for his best womanhood. He would have 



1/4 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

feminine vision, or intuition, that gift by which 
woman is chiefly separate from man, natively em- 
The intui- ployed in processes that make for his exal- 
tion of tation and advance, and not in unapplied, 
speare's untcthcred exercise. Shakespeare knows 
women. ^^q other type of female imagination, of 
'which he has made stern studies in Lady Macbeth and 
Cleopatra. The George Sands and George Eliots have 
not greatly advanced the race, and, as personal fac- 
tors and figures, stand apart from their sex at large. 
Woman is to Shakespeare's thought the interpreter 
of the gods in things touching the Good and the 
True and their increase upon the earth. Why are 
purity and worth the basis of man's love for woman.!" 
Because coming generations are to be born thus by 
consecutive, progressive selection of the Beautiful 
and the True, which are but manifestations and 
modes of God. So the race evolves toward these 
excellencies, and is compassing them as rapidly at 
this moment, in degree, as ever in its history. The 
Kingdom of God comes not except by influence. 
Rightness and Beauty cannot strive or cry; they 
must be sought and chosen for their own sake. The 
man who discerns, and sells all that he has that he 
may buy, achieves them within his own existence. 
By the economy of the spiritual universe, each 
grandly noble and righteous deed goes to the credit 
side of every indorsing and coveting soul's account. 
Shakespeare has made in Romeo simply a man who 
discerns completely, — as Posthumus did not, and 
buys the pearl of price with all his treasure. Juliet 



ROMEO AND JULIEl' 1 75 

is but an Imogen nature more richly glorious and 
alert with Beauty. 

The Romeo and Juliet is then but another Cymhe- 
line. Without Juliet it could not have been con- 
ceived ; and the Juliet in it is not the Juliet of 
Brooke or of Bandello. Shakespeare is the same 
man, in respect of spiritual ideals and aims, at 
twenty-eight as at forty-six, except that he is more 
insistent and intense. Why should he have at- 
tempted such a portraiture as this Juliet, when his 
fame and success were yet a-making .-' Expanding 
and realizing Brooke's poem did not require it. 
Granting that Shakespeare discerned the character, 
just as we have found it developed to us, how shall 
we explain his venturing with it before the coarse 
audiences of The Theatre or The Curtain ? We 
know what the behaviour of salacious and brutal 
men is in playhouses even yet, over tender situa- 
tions, when they are in force and dare to groan 
or jeer. Plays were not seldom interrupted in Shake- 
speare's day, even by high-bred patrons, and the im- 
personators mocked and badgered. How then could 
Shakespeare have risked, before a sixteenth- „, 

^ ' The power 

century rabble of horse-boys and watermen of juiiet 
and their sort, with a sprinkling of gallants ghlke- 
and masked women, to present Juliet in the speare's 
orchard scene of the Third Act, waiting for ^" fences. 
her Romeo .-' Yet we have no reason to suspect that 
the part was ever greeted with so much as a whisper 
of ribaldry, though the JuUet who paced the orchard 
walks and said the lines, was not a woman, but a boy. 



176 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

There is nothing more inspired in Shakespeare or the 
world's Hterature, and nothing more delicate in its 
sympathy with woman, — save perhaps, in some por- 
tions, the treatment of Viola in Twelfth Nighty — than 
the first paragraph of the scene in question. Shake- 
speare's patrons would have at that time liked from 
him such plays as Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ford, 
and Massinger later wrote, but no such works did 
they get. Shakespeare alone of all the craft grew 
rich. He could not have known beforehand the 
result of refusing to cater to the public taste. There 
is no reasonable conclusion, save that he pleased first 
and chiefly of all himself, and wrote, even when bid- 
den by Elizabeth, by truth. 

As was said earlier, the basis of the play is certain 
exotic and southern excellencies of character, ex- 
hibited and evaluated in degree. Our manner of 
analysis has had reference mainly to distinctions of 
kind. To have considered it with full reference to 
its distinctions of degree would have involved more 
technical and abstruse inquiries. The outline anal- 
yses, in the Appendix to this volume, should clear up 
matters left doubtful here, and enable an approximate 
comprehension of the whole play. In art, or expedi- 
ents for the control of the reader's consents and sym- 
pathies, the piece is masterly. Prominent among new 
phases, achieved after the scene where we parted with 
the lovers, are the full womanising of Juliet, the evolv- 
ing of her feigned consent to marry Paris, the drink- 
ing of the potion, the awakening of Romeo, and the 
compelling, resistless management of the conclusion. 



ROMEO AND JULIET 1 77 

Perhaps no single procedure is more palpable, or 
striking, than the appropriation and merging of 
Mercutio, after his work is done, into the personality 
of the hero that he has been formed to serve. The 
subordination of Mercutio commences, as 

Mercutio's 

has been noted, at the opening of the giftsandac- 
Second Act. Shakespeare completes it by <=°'"pi's''- 

i- i- J ments 

causing him to suspect Romeo of having be- made over 
gun an amour or intrigue, and by making *° Romeo, 
him offer a scurrilous insult to Juliet's messenger, in 
the fourth scene following. Romeo has become at 
this interview, in consequence of his relation with 
Juliet, wholly sane and normalised, and proves himself 
no less than a match, in wit-passages, for his late 
overshadowing friend. This finishes the second stage 
of change. Then, after Mercutio's quarrel and fight 
with Tybalt, which Romeo quells, all his assets of 
gifts and brilliancy seem assumed and absorbed by 
the hero. Benvolio drops out of sight and is for- 
gotten. Romeo is now the man of the play. He 
kills Tybalt, whose chief accomplishment is swords- 
manship, almost at the first pass. He is grand and 
perfect in his daring, and strength, and resolution. 
He is aroused, though he is not yet awake. Of 
course the author's device is simple ; it is Romeo's 
sacrifice to avenge his friend that exalts him, and 
makes him that friend's spiritual heir. But the skill 
of this turn, which is not in Brooke, is worthy of all 
praise. 

The deeper meanings of the play can be but touched 
on here. The conditions under which they are de- 



178 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

veloped are idealized somewhat in the young man's 
The dee er ^^Y- Shakespeare knew no science, as we 
meaning of have come to know it in these days, but 
^ ^ ^^' seems to have divined pretty clearly many 
of its conclusions. The groundwork of society, as he 
sees it, is wholly in accord with principles of sociology 
and biology recognised to-day. In this drama, as just 
said, he postulates the complete conditions that nature 
would have always precedent to her work. In Posthu- 
mus there is too little discernment and appreciation 
of Imogen's worth to inspire him to his full share in 
the work of the world. Romeo is a man who can 
read a perfect woman, and place himself in complete 
subservience to her leading and inspiration. Nature 
guards woman with all her resources, and places her 
chief in the social economy ; man is but secondary. 
Nature puts within her instincts that shape her 
course ; man's is shaped by hers. Upon fundamental 
thinking of this kind Shakespeare works out the play. 
Juliet is shown at first as merely a girl-woman, hid in 
the life of the home, having no secrets from her 
mother and her nurse, and wholly free from the in- 
terference of sex-forces. Under our eye, she is 
brought into acquaintance with the divinely appointed 
complement of her life. The first demand is that 
she break with the traditions of her past This 
demand she meets. The woman-instincts in her at 
once assert themselves. She, and not her lover, plans 
their union and their future. Cut off by fate from 
present flight with Romeo, she is confronted with the 
marriage to Paris, for some time in prospect, but 



ROMEO AND JULIET 1 79 

precipitated now to temper the grief caused by her 
cousin's death. , She tries to confess to her father, 
but his Itahan violence makes that impossible. To 
prevent with us the notion of retreat the author has 
taken care to make her by Romeo's visit irrevocably 
a wife. The nurse that Shakespeare has provided in 
part to keep her counsel, and help hide from her par- 
ents that she already has a husband, unblushingly 
advises that she wed Paris and end her troubles. 
Astounded at the immorahty of the guide whose 
steps she has followed hitherto, Juliet takes upon 
herself all her burdens, and sets forth to walk alone. 
By the defection of the nurse, whom he has provided 
to this end, Shakespeare consummates the woman- 
ising of his heroine. No course is left but one of 
indirections commended and urged by her confessor. 
She is to feign consent to the marriage, and juiiet.inef- 
by a sleeping potion remove herself from her fect.accepts 

r,, , r ,,1 , death for 

father s power, and prepare for the belated Romeo's 
flight with Romeo, who till then shall know honour, 
nothing of her trials. The strength of the ancient 
Capulets comes to her. She goes to death, or indeed 
experiences dreaded worse than death, to save Romeo 
his rights in her. 

Such beautiful devotion should have been re- 
warded ; it is tragedy unspeakable that all this 
endeavour should come to nought. There is no de- 
fault on Juliet's side. As she awakes, and finds the 
terrors of the place forestalled by Friar Laurence's 
torch, the heaven of the future seems to open. The 
two lives, completed so sublimely each by each, 



l80 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

should have grown to be the envy of the gods, and 
left their spiritual increase to the generations. But 
all this was not to be, for in her bosom Romeo lies 
dead. There is no swoon, no outcry, no asking for 
the reasons. The Anglo-Saxon woman would have 
left it all with God. Juliet has done that long since, 
and dies rather than patch a life that has lost its goal 
and warrant of devotion. Romeo, who has spoiled 
all, knows nothing of true service, and has lived but 
for himself. It is not his fault, for it is his nature, 
and it is thus far according to the nature of his sex. 
He has looked for nothing but happiness, which 
seems his right. Denied it, he is done with the 
world, and recognises no debt to it or to mankind. 
When his dream is broken by the report of Juliet's 
death, asking no questions as to the manner of her 
dying, pausing not to learn from Friar Laurence her 
last words to him, he hurries with Southern passion 
to claim his place in Capulet's monument, and for no 
good except his own. His faith, like Posthumus's, 
has failed. He should have guessed that Juliet would 
not terminate her life without some word or token or 
remembrance for himself, and that whatever 
ishness she has done, she has done it for his sake. 
and wo- jt is right that man should be selfish, and it 

man'ssacri- . 1111 1 • 

fice, com- was appomtcd that he should be such, just 
piementai ^s it was appointed that woman should be 

modes. 

self-nnmolating. His selfishness makes him 
strong, and his strength is to be in the fulness of 
time for her and for the race. That fulness of time 
for this twain is come and past. But Romeo has for- 



ROMEO AND JULIET l8l 

gotten to be patient and act for both. Juliet has 
never, from the moment of loving Romeo, acted for 
herself, and dies deliberately, in the repose and certi- 
tude of a fulfilled career. Romeo dies in the white 
intensity of a passion inconceivable and incompre- 
hensible to Northern minds. Were his mistake, Hke 
Posthumus's, not mortal, Juliet would have schooled 
him, as Posthumus was schooled. So must it ever 
be, the perfect woman subduing her lord to patience, 
and taming his selfishness unto the bearing of bur- 
dens, not his, not hers indeed, but God's, to the 
end of the discipline and perfecting of them both. 
Romeo and Juliet were ill-starred lovers because 
their trial came before her work in him was yet 
begun. 

In point of art, it does not appear that we have in 
the Shakespeare of 1592 a less ingenious or less con- 
fident master than in the Shakespeare of The art of 
16 10. As regards insight and knowledge he Shake- 

r 11 1 • 1 -T speare in 

IS lull-grown, as touchmg ability to sway 1592 and 
our sympathies and abate our prejudices he ^^^°- 
shows no sign of empiric or apprentice powers. In- 
deed, in conception, and proportion, and movement, 
Romeo and Juliet is superior to the plays assigned 
to the later year. In Cynibeline and TJie Winter s 
Tale there are limitations and defects of plot that 
Shakespeare handicaps himself with nowhere else. 
Nothing, apparently, but availability to a vital pur- 
pose, as was earlier suggested, could have prompted 
him to attempt the handling of such refractory and 
inartistic material. In the Romeo and Juliet we have 



1 82 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

a good example of the kind of matter that Shake- 
speare habitually selects. There is nowhere a better 
plot or more typic tragedy. In some points of execu- 
tion it falls much short of what may be found in 
plays composed but a few years later. There are 
Italianisms and puns, there is stilted declamation, 
there are passages cast throughout in rhyme. But 
these, except the first, essentially disappear after the 
first three scenes, and are even here, as in the para- 
graphs of the Prince, of Romeo, and of his father, 
manifestly employed in part with a characterising 
purpose. 

In the plays thus far attempted, we have noted 
the author's art only incidentally, and with reference 
to minor expedients and aspects. In the space that 
remains for this part of our task, it will be necessary 
to consider Shakespeare as an artist more specifically 
in the larger problems involved in the making of a 
great play. Perhaps his technical mastery is in 
Coriolanus most complete in kind. His achieve- 
ments in Antony and Cleopatra are surely the most 
considerable in degree. Othello is to be mentioned 
as probably the most perfect of the tragedies, and 
King Lear as the most powerful. Twelfth Night 
and The Merchant of Venice belong high in the list, 
because of excellencies more exquisite and gentle, 
yet no less unrivalled. All these are well adapted 
for our purpose, save for extent, and for the chance 
that they might need to be expounded throughout 
before they could be made to serve. Macbeth is a 
shorter play, and condensed in action, the story and 



ROMEO AND JULIET 1 83 

ground-work are adequate, and familiar perhaps to 
the majority of readers. We shall then try to look 
at the material of this play as Shakespeare saw it, 
and watch the treatment by which it was made to 
assume its present form. 



V 

THE DRAMATIC ART OF MACBETH 

In every drama Shakespeare quickly brings before 
our minds a " maximum consummation," greatly to be 
A"maxi- dcsired, and makes us conceive and covet it 

mum con- r i i i ry-i • 

summa- as the outcomc of the whole. This consum- 
*'°" " mation is generally presented as early as the 

coveted at second situation, often in the second scene, 
the begin- jj^ Cymbeline our desire to see Imogen re- 
everypiay. storcd to her husband and to her rights in 
the royal household, which is the dramatic consumma- 
tion for that play, is shaped after the introductory dia- 
logue in the first scene.^ In The Winter's Tale our 
conception and desire of the conclusion come in the 
second scene. In Romeo and Juliet it is delayed 
until Scene iii., or if the affinity between the lovers 
is not divined so early, in Scene v. The arousement 
of interest, and of the wish for a specific outcome, is 
the first step in Shakespeare's dramatic, or, indeed, 
we should say literary, treatment of every theme. 

It does not always happen that we realise our con- 
ceived and coveted conclusion when the play ends ; 
and in that case we call the whole a Tragedy. In 

^ It falls in the second scene, however, in the earliest or Folio division 
of the play, the first scene ending at 1. 69. Romeo and Juliet is not 
separated into acts or scenes in the Folio edition. 

184 



DRAMATIC ART 1 85 

the present instance Shakespeare will have to con- 
struct a drama of this kind, if he follows t,, ^ . 

' The first 

history, and Macbeth will be the hero. But condition 
Macbeth is neither great, nor good, nor, in- ° '^^^ ^' 
deed, much more, in point of prowess and strength, 
than an average swordsman. How can promise be 
developed in such a man, how shall we be allured into 
wishing to see him king of Scotland by usurpation, 
or coveting for him a brilliant and undisturbed career.' 
Clearly enough, no maximum consummation of less 
potency will carry the piece through. But how shall 
the author overcome our indifference to such a hero } 
It would be a pretty hard problem, if the task could 
be made our own, for the most of us. Our schools 
of literature could scarcely help. The soludon of 
the difficulty is not to be found in rhetoric or criti- 
cism, — else Shakespeare would not have reached it, 
— but in psychology^. Such control over the imagi- 
nation ol the readermust be sought for as will make 
him disregard Macbeth's limitations as well as Dun- 
can's piety. Duncan, we shall probably remember, 
was historically a weak personage, wholly unfit, in an 
age of violence, for kingship. Hohnshed o^jn^anan 
speaks of him as " soft and gentle of nature," unkingiy 
and " negligent in the punishment of of- ^^^^' 
fenders." According to the same authority, the rebel 
Macdonwald called him " a faint-hearted milksop, more 
meet to govern a sort of monks in some cloister than 
to have the rule of such valiant and hardy men as the 
Scots were." The removal of such a figure can be 
managed, and much more easily than the installation 



1 86 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

of his successor. "'Since Shakespeare cannot present 
Macbeth as one whom we shall wish to see prosper 
in his own worth, interest must be supplied in some 
way from without. / The prophecy of the Weird 
Sisters, as told in the chronicle, suggests a plan. 
Properly these Sisters are not at all vulgar witches, 
and there is no hint in Holinshed to warrant their 
presence in such a role. Shakespeare gives them 
^j^p shapes and features not much better, but 

Witches' makes them specific servants of certain 
asers. gj-g^^ dcmous, or " principaUties," of the air. 
Witches have the power to bind demoniac agencies 
to their call. These Sisters are bound to the wills 
severally of their masters, who, according to notions 
not wholly exploded in Elizabethan times, have power 
in shaping the destinies of nations and of men. Shake- 
speare has but to make these masters interested in 
Macbeth's future, and allied in the effort to control 
it, and the thing is done. 

To begin the play, it will be necessary to advise 
the audience or reader concerning the weak character 
of Duncan's kingship, and to arouse interest, if that 
is possible, in Macbeth as the hero. To do this with 
the usual dramatic condensation, it will be necessary 
to select some point in Macdonwald's campaign 
against Duncan for the moment of opening. Natu- 
rally Shakespeare chooses the battle in Lochaber, in 
which Macbeth put down that rebel. But Macbeth, 
played, according to Holinshed, no very significant 
part in the fighting of the day ; he did not kill Mac- 
donwald, but merely found him dead in a castle 



DRAMATIC ART 1 8/ 

some distance from the field. Evidently Shakespeare 
will have to enhance Macbeth's importance 

1 1 , • • 11 1 Macdon- 

in some way, and make him essentially the waid not 
chief figure. Holinshed says nothing about ^'"^'^ ^y 

° J ° Macbeth. 

the Witches until after the victory ; but it 
may be assumed that they were interfering with the 
natural course of things considerably before that. 
Shakespeare needs to have their main work, or their 
masters', done before the battle is concluded. 

A little scene of eleven lines furnishes a sufificient 
introduction. If the piece is to run under diabolic 
control, the supernatural element must be why the 
prominent and compelling from the first, wnchesare 

\ 11 shown in 

We are not of course to see the demons ; the first 
but their representatives, the Witch-sisters, ^'^*^"^- 
must be shown to us in the first scene. Since witches 
shun the haunts of men, the scene will be laid in a 
" desert place," or upon a moor. It will not do to 
have clear weather. The Witches, or their masters 
rather, have power over the elements. So there is a 
sullen, depressing rain, with lightning and thunder. 
To mark the presence of diabolism, which never lacks 
the serpent's trail, this thunder-storm is accompanied 
with a thick, offensive fog. 

The time is perhaps two o'clock, and the battle has 
raged since morning. The Witches, or at least two 
of them, have beei abroad repeatedly on diabolic 
errands, over seas and continents perhaps, at the 
order of the demons. But they are so agog over 
the business which their masters have in hand, and 
which they are in part executing or to execute, that 



1 88 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

they cannot help coming together, like children tru- 
anting, to discuss the mischief. They have already, 
we may suppose, met more than once since raising 
at daybreak the storm. They have now been to- 
gether long enough to exchange reports and give 
some vent to their enthusiasm ; they are just ready 
to arrange for the next rendezvous, as the lifting of 
the curtain discovers them to us. They agree to 
stay away from each other till the battle is over, and 
their work with Macbeth begins. They have evi- 
dently been commissioned to accost him, and speak 
the prophecy that shall fix his fate. 

All that we need to know, besides what we see, is 
indicated potentially in the talk of the three Sisters. 
We get the suggestion, to be confirmed {cf. IV. i. y^) 
later, of a difference in the power or knowl- 
witches ledge of their masters. The First Witch 
differen- ^anuot tell the time or place. The Third 

tiated in ^ 

power and Witch alouc sccms to know the future ; she 
nowe ge. ^g^^jg^j-gg <^^<^ ^]^g conflict wiU be over, and 

that they shall have met for their work " ere the set 
of sun." They are all manifestly aware that Mac- 
beth is to be victorious. Who Macbeth is, to those 
unacquainted with Scottish history, will be made 
known in the next scene. That these Witches are 
for the moment off duty, perhaps without warrant, 
and are needed for industrious work in the interim, 
The inces- is now made apparent. The master of the 
cSf on'he ^^^^^ Witch calls his servitor away. That 
demons. immediate service is expected seems indubi- 
table from the answer, " I come, Graymalkin," which 



DRAMATIC ART 1 89 

is of the sort given to a summons when known to be 
an urgent one. The second demon master also de- 
mands the presence of his minister, as we understand 
from the words, " Paddock calls," of the Second 
Witch, who alone apparently hears the voice. They 
do not seem to wait for further summons, but rising 
and circling in the air together, they cry " Anon " to 
their masters,^ and chant, presumably to them, a dia- 
bolic confession of faith, and a prayer, as they pass 
from the scene. The Third Witch seems t,. „, . , 

The Third 

not summoned away, like the others, to dis- witch not 
tant service, and it may be has been detailed ^"'"™°"^ • 
to remain near the place of .fighting, and assist the 
issue. She alone of the Witch Sisters makes no 
report, on their next coming together, of aerial voy- 
aging and of wicked havoc wrought in other lands. 

We need now to see how the demon agencies, 
through the Third Witch, or perhaps without her, 

■ are giving aid to Macbeth in the field. Were it dra- 
matically wise or safe, the author would enact the 
struggle, and let us see the help administered, from 
the Witches' masters, with our own eyes. But a 
battle is a difficult affair to show upon the The battle 
stage ; and there would be risk here lest the p° ned^not 
spectacular effect of such a thing hinder in shown. 
some measure our interest in the hero that is to be. 
/It will be better to leave the magnitude and details 

"^of the conflict to imagination. In that case there 
must be some one to tell the story ; and it will not 

1 The Folio text does not give " Anon," as found generally in mod- 
ern readings, to the Third Witch. 



190 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

do to wait for it until all is over. Some eyewitness 
must come in from the scene and report while the 
fight is on. Naturally this person, who is to with- 
draw before the battle is finished, will have been 
Avounded ; otherwise his testimony will not affect us 
^very strongly. If he is wounded, and severely, his 
bloody plight may be used, as visual evidence and 
earnest, to bring the awfulness of the battle home to 
us more effectually. Finally, this bleeding messen- 
ger should be something more than a common soldier, 
lest we conceive his testimrony incompetent, and lest 
it be lamely rendered. 

To whom shall the messenger report how the fight 
is going .'' Presumably not to the King, who should 
be at the head of his soldiers in the field. In fact, 
according to Holinshed, Duncan is at this moment 
leading the third division of the Scottish army. Yet, 
to institute a sufficient contrast between Macbeth and 
Duncan, the author may be forced to present the 
King as unmartial enough to shirk the fighting, and 
indeed to post himself at some distance from it, not 
Malcolm, in a place of observation, but of safety. Ex- 
Duncan^ actly this we find Shakespeare has done, 
unmartial. To show besides that Duncan's pusillani- 
mousness is not merely personal, but characterises 
the reigning family as a whole, it will be necessary 
but to present Malcolm, the King's grown-up son, as 
having tried to fight, and as having been saved from 
capture by the sergeant who is later to come away 
wounded and tell the story. Shakespeare begins the 
scene by this generic characterisation of father and son. 



DRAMATIC ART I91 

We know from Holinshed that Macbeth was 
obliged to defeat the Danes, as well as the forces of 
Macdonwald, before he could reestablish the power 
of Duncan. It will not do much harm to condense 
these campaigns, or rather the two great battles in 
which they respectively culminated, into one. It is 
this composite battle that Shakespeare will ^j^^ 
describe to us in the second scene. The composite 
fight with Macdonwald will of course come ^ ^' 
first. If the witch-masters in this, as Holinshed tells 
of it, helped Macbeth's side, they must have assisted 
the army and not the chieftain. Macdonwald, as we 
have seen, was not killed by Macbeth, and did not 
meet his fate till after the battle. Shakespeare must 
make the work of the demons more unequivocal. 
Macdonwald is a ruffianly warrior, apparently Mac- 
beth's superior in strength and size. In a sword 
duel between these two, it should naturally go hard 
with Macbeth. Now the work of witchcraft becomes 
apparent. Macdonwald finds that he cannot com- 
mand his accustomed adroitness and en- j^j^^^^on- 
ergy. Macbeth easily fends his thrusts, and waids loss 
assails him tellingly with counter-strokes. ° courage. 
Of course Macbeth does not know that his foe is 
handicapped, by the agency of the Third Witch, or 
by some other means, to his own infinite advantage. 
He cannot but suppose that his success is due to some 
newly awakened strength and dexterity of his own. 
In an access of contempt for such a blundering an- 
tagonist, he lets go a thrust that the merest tyro 
should have warded off, and "unseams" Macdon- 



192 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

wald, armour as well as body, from the cuirass to the 
helmet. The combat and its issue are witnessed 
apparently by both armies, and Macdonwald's sol- 
diers precipitously flee. Immediately after begins, 
v^ between Macbeth's forces and the Danes, the 
second battle. By the same supernatural leading, 
Macbeth and the Berserk commander, Sweno, seem 
The place to have been brought together. Macbeth 
sergeant's ^^"^ ^^^ almost his match. It is a good^ 
story. • place, while the combat hangs in the bal- 
ance, to withdraw the man who is to tell Duncan 
and ourselves of Macbeth's astonishing bravery and 
strength. So the author brings off the sergeant — 
wounded apparently in the iirst engagement and 
weak now with his hurts — from the field at this 
point in search of doctors, and uses his coming as 
the occasion to start the scene. 

King Duncan shows a pedantic interest in learning 
"of the revolt the newest state," and Malcolm almost 
Further 3-8 affcctcdly bids the sergeant ' say to the 
character!- King the knowledge of the droil as he did 

sation of , 

theDuncan Icave it. Duncan, Polonius-like, lets the 
family. j^g^^ bleed himself faint, while he tells the 
wonderful story of Macbeth's slaughtering the rebel 
chief. He begins to explain how the single combat 
between Sweno and Macbeth stood, as he left it, 
doubtful 

As two spent swimmers that do cling together 
And choke their art, — 

but his strength fails him. As he reels from loss of 
blood, and is helped away, another messenger some- 



DRAMATIC ART 1 93 

what excitedly approaches. This time it is Ross, 
one of the King's thanes, with an official report. 

In the interval between the sergeant's withdrawal 
from the field and Ross's coming, the battle with the 
Norwegians has been finished. Sweno has been 
forced, in spite of his viking rage and strength, to 
yield to the onslaughts of Macbeth's claymore, and 
sue for quarter. Shakespeare does not say specifi- 
cally that the combat has been mainly a single one, 
between these heads of the two armies ; but he cer- 
tainly, in the sergeant's language just quoted, implies 
as much, and Ross's words bear out the same pre- 
sumption. Ross is evidently no worshipper of his 
commanding general, as the sergeant is. He has 
seen nothing that he is willing to think remarkable ; 
he does not mention Macbeth's name. Remember- 
ing that Macbeth is Duncan's cousin, and by blood 
equally with him entitled to the throne, we can guess 
Ross's feeling. Duncan's rule is a failure ; the 
Scotch nobility despise him : Macbeth is a possible 
successor. But Ross, who is of rank not inferior to 
Macbeth, does not wish to come under the authority 
of one from among his peers. 

But the thing that Ross does not crave is the very 
outcome that we desire. We wish to see Macbeth 
king in Duncan's place. This is the second The"maxi- 
scene of the First Act, and the " maximum """^ '^^^^ 

summa- 

consummation " is coming into view. Mac- tion " now 

(beth, through the power of the demons, has ^'s'^^^^- 
saved Scotland, and will be hailed by the whole nation 
'\as its deliverer. We know how a people idolize the 



194 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

hero of a telling victory. Of course we know that 
Macbeth could not, of himself, have won his double 
triumph, but that makes small difference with us. If 
he were really a brilliant and great man, if he had, 
like a Richard Coeur de Lion, put down Macdonwald 
and Sweno by dint of personal resources only, we 
should covet to see him king for his own sake. As it 
is, we perhaps crave mainly to witness what the witch- 
powers can do with him and through him for the 
good of Scotland. We have taken his successes as 
the earnest of coming prodigies of valour, and are in- 
fluenced, probably more than we are aware, by the 
hope of seeing some of his feats enacted openly in 
progress of the play. 

The piece is certainly now well launched, and only 
seventy-nine lines have been used to impart all need- 
ful knowledge, and to engage our sympathies for the 
Readine bero. These first two scenes furnish a good I 
between example of the potentialness that all great' 
ines. literature must embody. Very little of the , 
meaning that has stirred us is told literally or directly. 
We have discerned it through and beyond the 
medium of the text; we have read it, as we say, 
between the lines. To do this is of course to inter- 
pret Shakespeare, and in some measure to discover 
the art by which he works. But the condensation 
and potentialness here are by no means typical of the 
play, or of literature at large. No other drama of 
Shakespeare's, perhaps nothing in modern authorship, 
is quite so hard to grasp in the opening situations. 
Elsewhere the Macbeth is simple, and worked out in 



DRAMATIC ART 1 95 

accordance with the plainest laws. Moreover, the 
scene just finished has involved an interruption of the 
plot, since it would have been more natural to present 
the return of the Witches, and their meeting with 
Macbeth, in the scene next following the one in which 
they are made to promise it so formally. This meet- 
ing is not to be longer delayed. The third scene 
opens with the Three Sisters in waiting across the 
path of the returning army, some minutes before the 
arrival of Macbeth. It will be well to revive our im- 
pressions of the Witches, and prepare imagination 
for their roles. So the author provides this interval 
that we may hear them rehearse the mischief that 
they have been doing. The Second Witch has been 
at work, perhaps not outside the boundaries of Scot- 
land, killing swine. The First Witch has certainly 
voyaged out as far as Hull, or London, or some other 
considerable seaport town, where sailors' wives may 
be seen sitting beside their cottage doors. She has 
been rebuffed by one of these women, and is prepar- 
ing for revenge. This ship-master's wife is a devout 
woman probably ; there is no effort or purpose to 
inflict bodily injury upon her. Her prayers seem to 
insure the protection also of her husband ; ^j^^ 
the demons cannot touch his life or wreck of these 
his ship. But the First Witch is permitted "^"'=^^^' 
to harass him by terrifying storms, and she vows to 
keep up this torture for nineteen months and over, 
almost two years. She has recouped herself pro- 
visionally, as it appears, with another victim. She 
has encountered somewhere in her wanderings, upon 



196 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the sea, a similar vessel, whose master seems not to 
have a praying wife. She has wrecked this ship, on 
the homeward voyage, and exhibits to her sisters, 
as a trophy, torn from his dead body, its pilot's 
thumb. This is surely evidence enough concerning 
the disposition of the Witches, and the power they 
wield. Our hero, unless he too has a guardian to 
shield him with her prayers, will be in no small 
jeopardy. Even at this moment the Sisters are wind- 
ing up a charm to his weal or ruin ; for the sound of 
a drum tells us that Macbeth's guard of honour is 
approaching. 

It is well to know the state of Macbeth's feelings, 
whether he is elated over his exploits. If he were 
A hint of truly great, if he had won his victories him- 
Macbeth's self, he would have forgotten them. His 
ee ings. ^^^^ words show that they have not by any 
means passed from his mind. He realises that he 
will be looked upon as the greatest man in Scotland. 
Like Dewey after the battle of Manila, he will be 
everybody's hero, and the chief figure in the whole 
country. Banquo, who has done his best, and is 
free from vanity, can be used as Macbeth's foil. He 
is thinking simply o-f how far it is to Forres, and 
how soon the march to that town will be over. At 
this moment the presence of the Witches becomes 
visible. The Witch-Norn of the Past salutes Mac- 
beth as Thane of Glamis, a title that he has inherited 
lately, but not assumed as yet. The Witch-Norn of 
the Present hails him as Thane of Cawdor, an honour 
which has but a few minutes been his, and which 



DRAMATIC ART 1 97 

the King's messengers, Ross and Angus, are on 
their way now to make known. Of course the 
Witches cannot have come by the knowledge of 
Cawdor's sentence and Macbeth's advancement by 
any human means. It is a strongly dramatic mo- 
ment, and carries our interest to the highest point 
yet reached. Then comes that for which everything 
thus far has furnished only preparation. The Third 
Witch, speaking slowly and weightily and ominously, 
as the Norn of the Future, declares her prophecy : — 

All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter ! 

We cannot but believe, and much as Macbeth him- 
self believes, in the kingship the Weird Sister prom- 
ises. Shakespeare has appealed to our imaginations, I 
by this stroke, ingeniously and well. He has made 
us conceive the maximum consummation again, and 
more intensely. This repetition and intensification 
are common in Shakespeare's plays, and for that 
matter also in novels, which are typically but extended 
dramas, the chapter being scenes. 

It is necessary that we should be committed to the 
fortunes of the hero much more completely. The 
author has done all that can be done by direct pro- 
cesses. His best recourse, after he has made us 
imagine and covet his maximum conclusion The Minor 
as strongly as the nature of the case allows, o^istacie. 
''^ to irk us with obstacles to the consummation of 
\ Vour wish. He presents the first of these as soon as 
the prophecy of the Third Witch is uttered. Mac- 
beth starts, and seems to be afraid of something that 



198 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the promised elevation will involve. We infer that 
he will do nothing himself to secure the crown, and 
will perhaps, if the army or the nobles revolt and 
declare for him, even resist their wish. He has 
seemingly felt the temptation to use the enthusiasm 
of his soldiers and the prestige of his double victory, 
as the warrant for dethroning Duncan. But his 
popularity is too dear to throw away, and he has 
apparently determined to remain wholly true and 
loyal to the King. But now the salutation of the 
Third Witch seems to stir him with concern lest he 
be forced to sacrifice his conscience and self-respect. 
His will is free; he has not been bewitched. But 
he is afraid lest he shall change his mind. Ross 
and Angus arrive, confirming the prophecy of the 
Second Witch, and removing all doubt from Mac- 
beth's mind. As his confidence in the Witches grows, 
his unwilhngness to ally himself with his destiny 
increases. He debates the matter absorbingly, for- 
getting the presence of his friends. His future, we 
•feel, lies largely in his own choice. The scene 
closes with his earher resolution unaltered, or indeed 
confirmed, by this decision to remain neutral and 
await events. 

Of the hindrances or obstacles to the consumma- 
tion of a plot, two must be exhibited as of greater 
The Major prominence than the others ; and one of 
Obstacle, these must last longer, and involve more 
effort to overcome. Macbeth's reluctance to act for 
himself, which has just been shown, is the Minor 
Obstacle. The Major Obstacle will be presented in 



/^L 



DRAMATIC ART IQQ 

the next scene. This the author finds in the material, 
moulded almost to his hand. We have hoped, and 
Hohnshed says that Macbeth also has hoped, thati/L ^^j^ (__^ 
Duncan will abdicate in Macbeth's favour, or at least- f- _„„^" 
V bequeath to him the succession. The throne is not 
as yet hereditary ; Duncan can reward the saviour of 
Scotland if he will. But he expects to rule by virtue ] 
of his helplessness ; he is too intrenched in his over- 
weening, grandfatherly superiority to think of paying 
the country's obligations, or his own, in anything but 
empty promises. At the earliest moment possible, 
even before the dead from his faithful battalions are 
buried, he proclaims Malcolm Prince of Cumberland, 
and heir to the crown. Nothing can bring Macbeth /y^ 
to kingship now but the most drastic measures.' 
Shakespeare ends the scene by starting Duncan out 
upon a progress, apparently to attach his thanes to 
himself more closely, and prevent a new rebellion. 
He will naturally visit first his kinsman at Inverness. 
There will be no harm in our imagining ourselves, 
for the rest of the play, apprentices of Shakespeare, 
and permitted to work at his problems Removal 
with him. How shall we engage Macbeth '^^^^^ 
to insist a little upon his rights, and so lift Obstacle. 
the Minor Obstacle from the plot .-" The witch-forces 
must not be used further, or we shall spoil the whole. 
Macbeth must be left a free moral agent at any cost. 
Holinshed reports that Macbeth's resolution fully 
gave way after Duncan fixed the succession upon 
Malcolm. It will not do to have our hero act like 
that. The forces that shall carry him into revolt 



200 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

must come from beyond himself. The new factor 
that is needed can be supplied in the person of his 
wife. 

The fifth scene need not be a long one. We must 
show that Macbeth, while in the field, keeps in com- 
munication with Lady Macbeth, and is inspired by 
her. So we can open by having Lady Macbeth read 
from a letter just received from her husband. By 
making this letter to have been written after the bat- 
tle, and his meeting with the Witches, but before his 
interview with the King at Forres, we can indicate 
how constantly Macbeth has despatched couriers to 
her. 

Lady Macbeth must not be made such a woman 
as to be pleased merely, when the prophecy of the 
Witches is reached. Her interest must amount to 
an immediate and compelling resolution ; or, as we 
find, — 

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be 
What thou art promised ! 

Macbeth shall be king whether he wills or not. And 
she will know as well as the audience does how 
Macbeth is hesitating. He is too scrupu- 
Macbeth lous. He would uot play false, yet is not 
impatient unwilling, if he may win, to win unrightlv. 

for her . o j 

husband's It Will uot do to make her resolve thus for 
advance- j^^gj. q^j^ sake. It must be for her husband, 

ment. 

because she loves him, is proud of him, and 
believes him deprived scandalously of his deserts. 
She must not seem conscienceless or evil, but so 
intense of temperament and imagination as to real- 



DRAMATIC ART 201 

ise to the uttermost the promise and the opportunity 
that are theirs. 

Knowledge that the King is coming will naturally 
arouse Lady Macbeth's energies to the highest pitch. 
Duncan is an unsuspicious, inoffensive man ; she 
feels that almost anything can happen, if he is once 
shut up within her castle. It will not do to show her 
coarse or cruel ; we should fail of everybody's sympa- 
thy for her and for her husband. We must make her 
betray to us, by a fresh soliloquy, what a supreme 
and awful thing, to her own soul, she is conceiving. 
We must make her tremble at the thought of violence 
and blood. We must make her cry out to the unseen 
powers, evil ones, to the witch-masters, if need be, 
for help against the weakness of her nature. Shake- 
speare does just these things, and grandly: — 

Come, you spirits ' >. 

That tend on mortal thoughts ; unsex me here. 
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 
Of direst cruelty ! * 

Her conscience, she knows, will torture her. She 
must pray to be fortified against that : — 

Stop up th' access and passage to remorse, 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it. 

Then her womanly instincts and promptings, the 
desire to mother helplessness and infirmity, like Dun- 
can's, must be given up, however precious, for her 
husband's sake. Never was there prayer more 



202 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

pathetic and self-immolating than this cry for help 
against her maternal nature : — 

Come to my woman's breasts 
And take my milk for gall, you murth'ring ministers, 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait on nature's mischief! 

Finally, there is the dread of seeing the victim and 
his ghastly wound, to be reckoned with ; the fear, 
too, of the searching eye of God, who it may be will 
thunder out in protest against the kilHng of so true 
a saint : — 

Come, thick night, 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark. 
To cry, "Hold, hold!" 

Lady Macbeth must worship her husband in no 
rdinary measure ; such devotion and sacrifice were 
Lady Mac- elsc incredible. It will be well to bring this 
shipofTei- ^^^- Now, as Macbeth's hurried step is 
husband, heard outside, comes the opportunity. We 
shall have her greet her husband in the fullest pride 
and admiration of the feats which he has told her of, 
and which she thinks all his : — 

Great Glamis ! Worthy Cawdor ! 
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter 1 

Macbeth, in spite of Duncan's ingratitude and 
snubs, is not disloyal. He is not ready to will harm 
Macbeth's to the King, whom he has always stood by 
first fear, yalorously. His conscicncc is clear thus 
far. I Hfi h'^'^-^ DOwn no fear s "^^^^ nn w, when he 



DRAMATIC ART 203 

reads the determination in Lady Macbeth's face, and 
hears her say that Duncan shall never go out from 
their castle. He has been made such a man from 
the beginning as would blanch at a turn like this. 
The risk and rashness of such a course are patent 
to any masculine imagination. Only her feminine 
intensity keeps Lady Macbeth from seeing the ruin 
that it will bring upon her husband and herself. Of 
all possible plots, that of killing Duncan in their own 
home is probably the most foolish. But this is not 
what we want our audience to see or feel at present. 
We wish merely to get its more complete sympathy, 
through the dismay that Lady Macbeth's resolve 
arouses in him, for Macbeth ; and that has now been 
done. 

Will it not be well to bring Duncan once more to 
view, as he comes into the power of Lady Macbeth, 
before his doom ? He must have a cham- Banquo to 
berlain, who shall be responsible for his ^■'veas 

' '^ Duncan s 

safety. It will save the introduction of a chamber- 
new character to put Banquo at that service. ^^'"" 
It will be well also, if we think our audience can bear 
it, to exhibit Duncan's refined, poetic nature more 
completely. There must be a new scene, of course ; 
and Shakespeare will need but two paragraphs to 
show him as a man born out of his proper age into a 
century of intrigue and violence. We shall not let 
Macbeth come out to welcome his kinsman ; he is still 
too agitated. Lady Macbeth will assume all smiles 
and graciousness, yet will scarcely escape the tempta- 
tion to allude, in deepest irony, to 



204 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

those honours deep and broad wherewith 
Your majesty loads our house. 

Duncan will be flattered most comfortably, and feel 
that he has done exceedingly well by his deliverer. 
v/The first crisis of the play is reached. Macbeth's 
aversion must now give way, or be established in the 
plot. It is possible to have the Minor Obstacle, in 
plays and novels, eventuate according to the wishes 
of the reader, or against them. In TJie Winter s Tale 
and Cymbeline, as we shall presently see in detail, the 
Minor Obstacle remains unabated, and brings its 
worst of consequences in each case upon the after- 
play. In the seventh scene, which must now begin, 
we shall resist the temptation to enact the banquet 
to Duncan's honour. We can have music playing, and 
the noise of plate and glasses, in the great feasting 
hall, with waiters and butlers passing and repassing 
thither and from it. The audience will on these hints 
adequately picture the scene within, — the King in 
comfort, Lady Macbeth plying her guest with demon- 
strative attentions, and her husband sitting in laboured 
and unassisting submission. Then, if we have any- 
thing like the tact of Shakespeare, we shall in due 
time bring away Macbeth, overcome by the influences 
of Duncan's naive and trustful presence, to advise 
with himself effectually. We shall make him develop 
his scruples and hesitation into definite reasons, five 
of them, why he shall remain neutral and loyal. As 
soon as he has declared himself, the work of Lady 
Macbeth must begin. She will have divined the 
cause of his leaving his guest, and will go out to re- 



DRAMATIC ART 205 

assume control, and prevent revolt. She will natu- 
rally first try sarcasm. He knows that he is her ideal 
of daring and heroism. If she is made to insinuate 
that his courage is not equal to his ambition, he will 
be stirred. What she, who is no conqueror of Sweno 
or Macdonwald, could do with her own babe, — or 
thinks she could, — were his problems hers, will put 
him to very shame. Then the suggestion of a plan, 
which in the exigency will seem not only practicable 
but brilliant, and the thing is done : — 

I am settled, and bend up 
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 

The Minor Obstacle has been Hfted, and the First 
Act precipitately ends. The close of the First Act 
is always shaped and determined thus in .^j^^ ^^^^ 
Shakespeare, on the proper resolution of for closing 
the earlier or Minor Obstacle. A corre- ^ ^^^^ '^'' 
sponding break, generally after about one-fifth of the 
whole number of pages, will be found typical in the 
structure of the novel. 

The resolution of the Major Obstacle comes close 
after the resolution of the Minor, with but a scene 
between. The Major Obstacle is always removed or 
estabhshed in the second scene of the Second Act. 
Sometimes, as in Cyvibeline, the intervening scene is 
but a makeshift one. There is plenty of substance 
out of which to make a first scene here. It is neces- 
sary to show Banquo's defection from loyalty. He 
has read out of Macbeth's face, during the banquet, 
and out of Lady Macbeth's suppressed excitement, 



206 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

what they are mtending. He has ushered Duncan 
Banquo's to his apartments, and seen his master in bed 
from t'h" for the night, yet with no least word of 
King. warning. He should have placed a guard 

over his charge. Instead, he lets the King go to his 
doom. Yet, to show that he is not actively disloyal, 
it may be well to have Macbeth approach him with 
overtures for a transferred allegiance. Shakespeare 
does this with inimitable succinctness and strength : — 

Macbeth. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis, 
It shall make honour for you. 

Banqtio. So I lose none 

In seeking to augment it, but still keep 
My bosom franchis'd and my allegiance clear, 
I shall be counsell'd. 

It is Macbeth's first defeat. He will never speak to 
Banquo about "cleaving to his consent," again. 

Will Macbeth be equal to the execution of his 
resolve .'' Since taking that resolution, he is a 
The new changed man. He is not bewitched, per- 
ness of "^' haps, but the evil powers have possessed his 
Macbeth, soul. The dcmon influences are by, and 
can easily furnish means of exhibiting to us how 
their victim feels. They shall display to him, and 
us, a phantom dagger, and make it move before him 
toward Duncan's chamber. Macbeth will not start, 
or shudder, or feel horror at the thought of following. 
On the contrary, he finds himself prompted to clutch . 
it. Drops of blood come out upon the blade and 
handle. It is an uncanny, diabolic spectacle ; but 
Macbeth senses nothing abnormal or hostile to his 



DRAMATIC ART 20/ 

moral nature. Out from the stillness of the night 
rise suggestions and visions, not of innocence, but 
of the blackest and most revolting crimes. 

The interest from Lady Macbeth's devotion may 
be culminated now. When she first dismayed her 
husband, on his return from the fighting, by her de- 
cision, she resolved that she would make him king in 
his own despite, and without his help. The worri- 
ment that her purpose has since caused him stirs her 
soul with a new enthusiasm. He has consented to 
do the deed, and she is to signal to him, by striking 
upon the bell, when all things are ready. Her love \ 
is ample ; the intensity of her vision has endowed-^'-^ 
her with an amazing power of will. Why Lady 
not have her actually, when she goes to assa^the*° 
Duncan's chamber, attempt the deed .'' She killing. 
must not achieve it; that would make her out a mon- 
ster. It will stir pity to have her try. She craves 
the daring and firmness of a man. Why not have 
her borrow strength, as she has heard that men some- 
times, in such moments, do .-• So she shall drink 
wine, in the hope even yet to surprise her husband. 
How she longs to tell him that he need not go, after 
all, to Duncan's chamber, that he shall be king, as he 
has always wished, without effort of his own. The 
spectacle of a woman laying up for herself anguish 
and perdition of soul, to save her husband from the 
consciousness of crime, is telling, and cannot be 
spared from the play. So we should show Lady 
Macbeth, with cheeks flushed by drink, after the in- 
effectual attempt, at the opening of the second scene. 



208 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

.. With Macbeth's dagger strokes, the Major Obsta- 

""^cle disappears. Malcolm no longer stands between 

T,, ,, . Macbeth and the throne. Duncan is dead. 

The Major ' 

Obstacle and no mortal eye has seen the murderer 
remove . ^^ j^j^ work. How shall the King's escort 
of thanes learn of the deed .'' Shall the castle awake 
in quiet, and come upon the horrible secret without 
warning ^ The tragic tension is too great for such 
delay. There is a better way to have Scotland know. 
The King's party is large, and some have been forced 
to lodge outside the castle. Certain of these may be 
made to come and arouse their people who are within. 
To keep the stage occupied, they must present them- 
selves before Lady Macbeth and her husband leave 
The knock ^^* "^^ making Duncan to have proposed 
ing upon to Set out early, wc may have them knock vig- 
t e gate. orously on the castle gate, to wake the por- 
ter, before daylight. This will furnish the climax of 
the scene, — Macbeth half-crazed and trembling, shut 
up in the castle with his crime, and the world knock- 
ing and waiting to come in from without. 

To bring in the world without too great precipi- 
tancy, the knocking must be repeated ; the porter 
must not too soon answer to the call. That the 
delay may be reasonable, we need only to bring out 
that the servants have caroused, on the King's 
largess, till the second cock. To give some back- 
ground of diabolism, we can ordain that there has 
been a storm, which was spoken of as gathering, 
after midnight, in the first scene of this act. 

Of course Lady Macbeth and her husband have 



DRAMATIC ART 209 

yet their chief ordeal to undergo ; they must meet 
the searching eyes of the King's thanes, and behave 
as if wholly surprised, and scandalised, and horrified 
at the murder. Of course they cannot possibly 
escape suspicion ; on the very face of things the 
guilt is theirs. No motive could be conceived for 
such action, on the part of anybody else, in the 
whole kingdom. Neither Macbeth nor his wife is in 
any sort of neurotic preparation for the coming 
strain. It would not be possible to have them meet 
it well, even if we wished. Our purpose, if we are 
artistic, must be to be true. If we are true, we must 
let causes work out their full conclusion. Macbeth 
will be lamest here in matters touching the King's 
person, and the death chamber, which he cannot 
bear to approach. He will make his first Macbeth's 
mistake when he leads Macduff to the door, and Lady 

. Macbeth's 

by not proposmg to go withm, or at least to fi,st 
knock. Macduff, who is the strong man blunders. 
of the play, will remember this omission later, and 
have his opinion about what it means. Lady Mac- 
beth, on hearing the castle bell, will come out too 
quickly, and so betray that she has been waiting for 
a cue. She is ideal in her acting, when she demands 
what is going on, to require such summons ; but she 
errs sadly enough in subordinating her horror at the 
King's murder to the circumstance of its ^ 

° Ban quo 

occurring in her house. The ringing of the not awak- 
bell is an excellent expedient for bringing ^^^'^^^ 
in the other characters immediately, and 
hurrying the scene forward. It serves especially to 



X* ♦ 



210 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

show that Banquo was not awaked by the noise, 
but was ready to start from his more distant apart- 
ment when the signal came. Malcolm and Donal- 
bain, on the other hand, have been certainly aroused 
from sleep, since from chambers next Duncan's, 
which are nearest, they come in last of all. Other 
guests, of course, besides those named in the stage 
directions, together with the various servants of the 
castle, have responded to the summons. 

So far matters have not gone wholly ill ; no disas- 
trous blunders have been committed. But the hard- 
est trials are yet to come. To discuss and sift the 
evidence concerning the author of the crime, to give 
testimony as household-heads touching the supposed 
safety of their guest, will be taxing in the extreme 
to both the culprits. But we must not, with details, 
prolong the scene. It can be ended dramatically by 
a pair of incidents, epitomising respectively the 
resources as well as weaknesses of each character. 
Macbeth may be made to have killed the grooms, 
from fear of their denials, when he entered with 
Lennox the King's chamber. His confession of this 
will bring upon him Macduff's excited and cruel 
question, — 

Wherefore did you so? 

There will be no standing before that. Any attempt 
to answer will be sheer ruin. The reader must at 
Ma b th' once diviue how Macduff will be disposed 
fatal toward the kingship that is coming. Mac- 

blunder, beth's idiotic explanation will make the thanes 
look significantly at each other. Lady Macbeth 



DRAMATIC ART 211 

will have doubtless planned, at some moving point or 
I other in these proceedings, to feign a swoon. It 
will arrest the contempt somewhat, and help her 
husband, to do it now, — or is she genuinely aghast 
and prostrated at what she has seen in the ^^^ 
thanes' faces ? To show how the lords Macbeth 

(regard her, and how far Macbeth is from "hTthanes^ 
assuming that the swoon is real, we can or Mac- 
. make these chivalrous lords, as well as her 
' husband, refrain from lending assistance as she 
falls. The climax may be strengthened by having 
Macduff and Banquo, whose conviction is strongest, 
bid the attendants, somewhat demonstratively and 
patronisingly, " Look to the lady." 

When the two obstacles are on the reader's mind, 
he loses sight of the maximum consummation. 
After they are resolved, it looms again to view. 
The audience will now expect and demand the fulfil- 
ment of the promise with which the play began. 
It will not be best to permit the sight, at present, of 
Macbeth crowned. A fourth scene can adjust the 
murder to the perspective of the times, and make 
known that the sovereignty will fall certainly upon 
Macbeth. 

The new action with which the Third Act always 
begins, is invariably of moment, and shapes j^^^(,^jgjjj 
the course of the plot. It will be wise as and Lady 
well as fitting, now, whatever may be the ^ppg^f^ 
outcome of the new rule, to show Mac- crowned 
beth as King, and Lady Macbeth as Queen. 
If their usurpation is not to be successful, it will 



212 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

be best to keep their crowns from sight for the 
remainder of the play. The plot, as found in Hol- 
inshed, requires that Banquo be cut off from all pos- 
sible interference with Macbeth's success. We can 
engage the sympathies of the audience for Macbeth, 
as against his enemy and rival, by making Banquo 
ready to conspire against the sovereignty just set up. 
His late disloyalty toward Duncan will have pre- 
pared for this. The audience expects Macbeth to 
enter, at once, upon a brilliant and strong career. 
It will wish that he assert himself, in this case, with 
severity and speed. If we show Banquo secretive, 
evasive, with reference to his plans and movements, 
on Macbeth's inquiring, it will be tantamount to proof 
that he is dangerous. This will insure Macbeth war- 
rant to proceed against him by whatever means. 
I We were not much interested in Macbeth, at the 
V beginning, on his own account. The interference of 
the Witches aroused us. On learning something of 
Macbeth's self-respect and dread of evil-doing, we 
found our interest in him very much enhanced. Lady 
Macbeth's sublime devotion and self-sacrifice have won 
our sympathy, at least dramatically, for her and for 
her cause. Such a woman and such a husband should 
survive ; so grandly endowed with spiritual possibili- 
"' ties, they should come to their best of usefulness and 
strength. This is the maximum consummation that we 
always crave for characters discerned as capable of 
living the largest and highest quantum of existence. 
But Macbeth and Lady Macbeth will not survive, 
since they have sought the largest living on impossi- 



DRAMATIC ART 213 

ble conditions ; and the end is tragedy. But the trag- 
edy does not consist in the mere fact of death or 
suffering ; it is because of the promise and ^^^ 
the possibihties that come thus to naught. Macbeth 
It consists in death or suffering wholly at '^ "^^^^ ^' 
variance with the proper spiritual desert of the victim. 
The author has expected from the first to disappoint 
us ; the nature of the theme materials compels it. 

To develop the tragedy of Macbeth within the 
limits of a play, requires swift changes. The mur- 
der of Banquo may be used to precipitate the issue. 
Nothing resulted from the death of Banquo, accord- 
ing to Holinshed, as affecting the comfort and firm- 
ness of Macbeth's mind. We can cause him to behave, 
in such a way as to furnish evidence of his guilt with ' 
Duncan ; we can show him half crazed with remorse 
and fear. When the people of Scotland know that it 
has a self-condemned ruler, it will cast him off. But 
how shall Macbeth be made to betray to them his 
secret .-' He has been made from the beginning a man 
much under the control of the finer sentiments. Con- 
science, then, will be the means. Moreover, the 
Witches have put Banquo, as to ultimate rule in 
Scotland, far above himself. Macbeth hates ,, , ., . 

' Macbeth s 

the man who renders the death of Duncan hate of 
of no effect, with perfect hatred. If he '^"^^°- 
could get at his rival, he would strike him fiendishly. 
He must be made to reach this enemy, by some means, 
with his own arm. 

Macbeth knows what it is to take the burdens of 
murder upon his soul. He will naturally strive, in 



214 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

this case, to put the responsibihty upon others. If 
Banquo has retainers who beheve that they have been 
wronged by their chief, he will send for them. When 
he has persuaded two men of this sort to undertake 
the deed, ostensibly for their own revenge, he will 
not leave them to execute it without surveillance. 
The Third But what survcillance can there be except 
Murderer, ^jg qwu .'' He will put on disguiscs, and 
join the assassins as a Third Murderer. He will have 
spies follow Banquo, to find where he goes, whom he 
meets ; and one of these spies will indicate, perhaps 
by beacon signal, the approximate arrival of their 
victim, upon return. 

Thus Macbeth will be enabled to approach the 
object of his hate, and make the despatchment sure. 
•Twent ^^ ^^^^ naturally strike his victim, wherever 
mortal he may reach him, many times. So there 
murt ers. ^.j-^ ^^ unsightly mutilation. Macbeth will 
not dare betray his identity to the other murderers, 
although Fleance should be at once pursued, but will 
return now with them to the palace. They will not, 
of course, find Macbeth, ' to report how much is done.' 
Then the Third Murderer will order the pursuit of 
Fleance, and the burial of Banquo's body. Free now 
from the First and the Second Murderer, Macbeth 
will lay aside his disguises, mingle with his guests, and 
wait with them ostensibly for Banquo's coming, but 
really for reports from the pursuit of Fleance. Ban- 
quo was killed just at dark, at seven o'clock {cf. HI. 
i. 42) or after. Three hours later they will give Ban- 
quo up, and his cover will be removed from the table. 



DRAMATIC ART 21$ 

How far the audience is to hold Macbeth bewitched, 
need not be settled here. It must premise merely 
that the Witches lie in wait for his soul. We Why Ban- 
need not force the reader to settle whether ?"°V^^"^. 

IS turbaned 

or not they lured him to his attack on Ban- with gore, 
quo's hfe. Let them take advantage merely of the 
opportunity that they now have to precipitate Mac- 
beth to his ruin. The twenty gashes inflicted in 
frenzy upon Banquo's head will have turbaned his 
hair unspeakably with gore. The Witches will raise 
an apparition, with this head, boltered with blood and 
{cf. III. iv. 79) brains perhaps, as a main feature of 
fright, and make Macbeth identify the ghastly specta- 
cle as his work. The thought that this mutilation 
exists only in the apparition, and not on Banquo, is 
estopped by the testimony of the murderer (III. iv. 27) 
who buried him.^ 

Turning to the text of the play, we see how deeply 
and subtly the author has planned for this vital mo- 
ment. He has made Macbeth as timorous ,, 

After com- 

and sensitive, almost, as a woman, in order promising 
that a bloody spectre of his own butchery ^^^'°^''\-^. 
may be to the uttermost appalling. He has tion with- 
presented Macbeth as sleepless and half ^^^^' 
crazed, since the preceding murder. He has put gj 
Macbeth's hand into Banquo's killing, to insure the , 
mutilation. He has shaped the waiting so that Ban- 
quo's place may not remain unfilled. Then, as Mac- 

1 That the audience may not doubt the diabolic origin of the ghost, 
Shakespeare will exhibit it again, and as unequivocally the product of 
witchcraft, in (11. 123, 124) the first scene of the next act. Cf. p. 219. 



2l6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

beth in his sottish and dazed security ventures to 
propose the health of the guest whom he has helped 
to kill, he has the witch-raised apparition sit in Mac- 
beth's place, — the sole one left unoccupied. The 
rest follows without manipulation. Macbeth will 
identify his bloody work, and blench at the ghost's 
significant recognition. Unmanned at what seems to 
him the real presence of Banquo here, he will make 
compromising allusions, supposing that all see as he 
sees : — 

Prithee, see there ! Behold ! Look ! Lo ! How say you ? 
Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too. 
If charnel-houses and our graves must send 
Those that we bury back, our monuments 
Shall be the maws of kites. 

The lords have probably not begun to suspect that 
Macbeth has meddled with Banquo's Hfe. They will 
The climax naturally suppose that the spectre which 
of the Macbeth sees is Duncan's. As soon as Mac- 

beth sufficiently betrays himself, the Witches 
will withdraw the apparition. To confirm the suspi- 
cions of the lords, who will spread the story of Mac- 
beth's terrors broadcast, the Witches will show 
Banquo's ghost again, not nodding and shaking its 
j gory locks, but glaring and petrifyingly terrible. 
\ Macbeth will quail this time more than ever. The 
', first time, he forgets the horror as soon as the appari- 
tion is out of sight. The Witches see to it that there 
is no forgetting now. Macbeth can be made to ex- 
press surprise that his guests are not stirred by the 
sights that have made him tremble. The lords, will- 



DRAMATIC ART 21/ 

ing to entrap him, will ask, What sights ? Macbeth^j«^y^ 
will have so far forgotten, for agony, that he has a 
secret, that he will be about to declare, as the merest 
matter of course, what he has seen. Lady Macbeth, 
realising the jeopardy, will drive away the guests, and 
stop the word, ' Duncan,' that she thinks he is ready 
to pronounce. To make this moment practicable, 
Lady Macbeth should not know surely that Banquo 
is despatched, or suspect that it is the vision of a later 
victim that unnerves her husband. Shakespeare has 
made Macbeth, in Scene ii preceding, keep from her^ 
definite knowledge of his purpose. 

At the middle of the Third Act, Shakespeare de- 
velops the subjective climax of a play. The real climax 
comes near the end. At the first climax The 
the author makes us prefigure the outcome cHnlaxo^ 
of the whole. Our imaginations possess the play, 
themselves of the issue, and our sympathies are much 
aroused over the fate that we foresee. When the 
ghost appears the second time, and we have heard' 
Macbeth betray himself, we feel pretty confidently 
advised how the piece will close. The subjective 
climax not only comes at the middle of a play, but 
coincides as here with the climax of the scene. 

After the lords have gone home and begun to talk, 
public sentiment will turn violently against Macbeth. 
A scene, here the sixth of the act, must be given to 
show the change. The First and Third Acts are gen- 
erally connected closely with the ones following. 
/Act I is separated from Act II by only a few hours. 
Act IV begins the day after the banquet. The 




2l8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

even-numbered acts, on the other hand, are followed 
ordinarily by longer intervals. Act III begins some 
days after the close of Act II. Act V waits for the 
news {cf. p. 223) from England. 

The decline of Macbeth from his favour and success 
must be accelerated. Within two acts the end must 
Macbeth be reached. The visit to the Witches, which 
degraded Macbcth proposcs at the end of the banquet 
Jth^^'"^ scene, can be made of signal consequences 
Witches, to the hcro. The Sisters have seemed pow- 
erful before ; they can be shown repulsive now. At 
the first meeting, they sought Macbeth; now Mac- 
beth seeks them. To save time, there may be a 
filthy cauldron and revolting incantations. All the 
influence of these things will be charged to Macbeth's 
account. Were it not necessary to advance quickly, 
less drastic means might be chosen. The scenes in 
that case would be more numerous and prolonged. 

Macbeth has undergone terrible experiences result- 
ing from the two murders. He will not wish to mul- 
tiply his woes. The Witches are his guardian genii ; 
he will naturally turn to them, and they will deceive 
him, and allure him yet more irrevocably to his fall. 
We have seen examples of their power in the air- 
drawn dagger, and the ghost of Banquo, but apart 
from their visible agency and presence. They may 
well be made to furnish some spectacular proof of the 
forces that they can command. There can be an in- 
genious and telHng exhibition of the diabolic masters, 
whom they serve, and whom the audience would like 
to see in material shape. The prophecy of the Third 



DRAMATIC ART 219 

Witch to Banquo, — believed by Shakespeare's public 
to have been fulfilled, may be dramatically realised 
by a stage device. Moreover, those who have failed 
to trace the thread of diabolism to which the pretended 
apparition of Banquo is attached, will be set right by 
seeing it again {cf. p. 215) and as the indubitable 
product of the Witches' power. The first figure in 
the show of eight kings will be like the spirit of 
Banquo, as it looked at the great feast ; but The pre- 
the figure that is to represent Banquo in his ^^i^"o^s'^'|,f 
turn shall be no less than the blood-boltered Banquo. 
presence by which Macbeth has been lately crazed, 
not this time shaking its head and leering, but smiling 
in a not unforgiving mood. 

Another step in another scene will enact, from 
Holinshed, the butchery of Lady Macduff and her 
children. It is needed to reduce still lower Another 
the reader's enthusiasm for his hero. The scene 

11 1 • r ^ • ^ T • n needed tO 

problem here is ot the simplest. It is well degrade 
in a scene so far on as this one to avoid Macbeth, 
bringing in new characters alone. So we may have 
Ross, as a relative of Lady Macduff, and commissioned 
by her husband to tell of his flight to England, con- 
nect the new action with the play. One of the chil- 
dren, the most precocious, will be shown with the 
mother, and the sympathies of the audience must be 
strongly engaged for both. It will be enough if we 
show the character of the mother, through her pain 
at what she thinks is Macduff's neglect, and exhibit 
the penetration of her boy against her attempts to 
mystify him about his father. The lad may be ideal- 



220 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ised, at the end, when the murderers come, by being 
made to attempt the role of protector to his mother. 
It will be practicable to have the murderers appear in 
hairy disguises, such as would make most boys, of 
this one's years, run to their mother's skirts 
mother, the for rcf ugc. This boy looks steadily into the 
1 /f^*^^!"' . face of the shaar-haired villain, and receives 

V ideahsed ° _ ' 

through the the Stroke of his dagger without crying, and 
°^' proposes even to stay by the murderer and 

detain him, that his mother may escape. The reader 
will be forced thus to recognise how stalwart must be 
the father of such a lad, and what have been the 
strength and daring of the Macduff family in genera- 
tions preceding. The effect of the scene will cer- 
tainly go far toward effacing the qualities that have 
seemed hitherto admirable in Macbeth. 

The hmitations of the theme and of the plot be- 
come onerous now. The Duncan type of king, which 
we esteemed so lightly and wished wiped out of the 
play, must be made acceptable ; for the crown shall 
/'go to Malcolm after all. Macbeth has lost much 
favour ; but we are by no means willing to contemplate 
a second Duncan, or anything like a second Duncan, as 
his successor. There is evidently much to be done be- 
fore the audience can bear the hint of such an outcome. 

We can do nothing here without our master. Prob- 
ably there is no man living who could execute this 
Malcolm task in the space of two hundred and forty 
subordi- lines. He opens scene iii, in which the 

nates Mac- ^ 

duff. work must be done, just after Macduff has 

told Malcolm of Scotland's plight, Macduff has 



DRAMATIC ART 221 

taken for granted that any rightful heir to the throne, 
on hstening to such a tale, would see his duty and 
accept it. Perhaps we, knowing Malcolm as we do, 
have not taken for granted any such thing. He 
must be shown at first such as we expect. More 
than this, he professes to be in fear lest Macduff 
have come in treachery, as Macbeth's tool, * to offer 
up a poor weak innocent lamb, to appease an angry 
god.' Even Macduff's impetuous enthusiasm gives 
way at this, — 

I have lost my hopes. Bleed, bleed, poor country ! 

The only process by which a character like Malcolm's 
may be restored is a negative one. We must discover 
to our reader certain qualities that he has supposed 
wanting, and lead him, through changing his mind 
about these, to change it concerning the whole man. 
Malcolm is made to subordinate Macduff by getting 
him to believe certain libels that he affirms upon him- 
self. He manages this so sturdily as to arouse some- 
thing like detestation in Macduff : — 

Fit to govern ! 
No, not to live. O nation miserable. 
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, 
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, 
Since that the truest issue of thy throne 
By his own interdiction stands accurs'd, 
And does blaspheme his breed ? Thy royal father 
Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee 
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet 
Died every day she liv'd. Fare thee well ! 
These evils thou repeatest upon thyself 
Have banish'd me from Scotland. 



222 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

To have managed the stalwart Macduff so easily and 
strongly, makes us see something in the man. The 
Duncan, of hint of a monkish, saintly nature, now 
the Edward (]\_ jqS, ioq) first put forward to palliate 
type of Duncan's failure, helps not a little. This 
^'"g- is a side of Duncan's character that has thus 

far received scant justice from the audience. The 
type of kingship that Edward the Confessor is suc- 
cessfully evincing, and the traditions of his reign, 
since the present scene is laid at his very court, may 
The chief be levied on. Shakespeare has a doctor 
doctor^^^ come out from the presence of the king, 
episode. and givc unhesitating though reluctant testi- 
mony — doctors are always sceptical about healers — 
that the King can cure. By making Malcolm take 
up the matter, and explain it fully, the author 
manages to invest him with something of the dignity 
and importance that belong to the two kings some- 
what in common. Edward the Confessor was not 
an efficient ruler ; but his goodness, or rather perhaps 
his piety, has considerably coloured the history of his 
reign. Malcolm comes away from contact with his 
prototype palpably stronger and more adequate for 
the future that is before him. 

Malcolm, for the next thing, must be made more 
tolerable and sufficient as a martial figure. The 
Malcolm author must undo the impressions, of callow 
amended ^^^ ineffectual valour, that he gave us on 
martially, first presenting (I. ii. 3-5) the character. 
Macduff does not yet know what has happened to 
his family since his flight. Ross can be made of 



DRAMATIC ART 223 

similar service to him as to his wife before her fate 
reached her, and will attract less attention, in a re- 
peated role, than a new messenger. He can be 
supposed to have been informed against, for going 
to Macduff's castle, and to be fleeing now to England 
from Macbeth's wrath. The heaviness of the blow 
prostrates Macduff, and Malcolm in rallying him 
gets himself into the royal superiority which we are 
not unwilling that he should assume. Here is a 
delicate moment. We are ready to change The audi- 
sides. Macduff's new, personal motive of ^"^^ soes 

. over to 

vengeance, in addition to his former one Macduff's 
of patriotism, brings us over. The mention ^''^^• 
(11. 190-192) of old Siward, — 

An older and a better soldier none 
That Christendom gives out, — 

as fighting under Malcolm, already reenforced by 
Macduff's strength and zeal, makes us accept the 
stripling prince, without well knowing what we do, 
as the coming man of Scotland. 

As was said earlier, between the even acts and the\ ^^ 
odd ones following, when the plot materials allow, arp^ 
placed the longest intervals. The Fourth The Fourth 
,^£tJs. typically a preparing-time ; it has paing-"^^' 
shown us here the massing and marshalling time, 
of the forces that shall overthrow Macbeth. The 
Fifth Act need not wait until Malcolm and his Eng- 
lish troops arrive. At word that they are coming, 
we can make the Scottish nobles rise, and draw Mac- 
beth into the field against them. Then Lady Mac- 



224 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

beth, foreseeing the retribution and the end, will 
begin to walk in her sleep. Macbeth, before he 
leaves her, will send his court physician to treat her 
malady. Through occasion of the doctor's presence, 
we may enable the audience to study her again, and 
know what sufferings she is undergoing. The scene, 
though great in possibiUties, is not difficult to con- 
struct, and will be easily intelligible to the reader. 
The climax Of coursc Shakcspcare's climax of ' the^ 
inthesieep- ^^^n ^f bjood still,' could ncvcr have been\ 

walking ' ,1 

scene. reached by another workman. How much\ 

it tells of an exquisite nature, born for the best and ^ 
noblest living, and unequal utterly to the burdens of 
remorse ! Lady Macbeth believed that, might she 
but make her husband king, she could pay the price. 
But she has lost her soul, and her husband's love, 
and all her peace of mind ; and she has dreaded the 
vengeance of Scotland so poignantly as to have be- 
come virtually insane. 

Macbeth, on hearing of the approach of the Eng- 
lish army, withdraws from the campaign against his 
revolted thanes to Dunsinane, where Lady Macbeth 
is staying, and intrenches himself. How the prophecy 
of the Witches' prophecy is fulfilled, how he goes out 
in frenzy and fights after all in the open field, it is \ 
not necessary to treat. The time for the consumma- \ 
tion is reached ; but the conclusion that the reader / 
TheObsta- sighted and coveted, at the beginning, will / 
ConJum-^' be denied. Whether a play is tragedy or 
mation. comcdy, docs not depend solely upon the out- 
come, but is a resultant in which the Major and the 



DRAMATIC ART 22$ 

Minor Obstacle are palpable factors. The two obsta- 
cles in the piece just analysed were each resolved in 
a manner that we approved, that is, comedially. 
In spite of all, the play has turned out a tragedy. 
Of course, the explanation lies in the fact that we 
were duped, through the author's acquaintance with 
the springs of feeling, into a dramatic demand for 
Macbeth's success that was really at variance with 
our principles. After the author had captured our 
sympathies, he let the inevitable consequences of his 
hero's action work themselves out. The end was not 
at all affected by our consenting to Macbeth's crimes. 
Some good people have held that Shakespeare shaped 
the piece as we find it because he was a wicked man, 
and wished evil, like what Macbeth attempted, every- 
where to prevail. We are pretty certain, for our 
part, that he did what he did because he had to make 
a play, probably on King James's requisition, out of 
the Macbeth materials. The play could not havdv 
been made if the reader was to be devoid of sympa-/ 
thy all the way through Macbeth's career. '^ 

It will be helpful, at this point, to compare the con- 
struction of the plays that have been examined with this 
one. In Cymbeline both the Major and the Compari- 
Minor Obstacle were encountered in scene iv ^^Jl^^J^h.'^' 
of the First Act. We should have thought, Cymbeiine. 
perhaps, that the Queen's schemes are the chief 
obstruction that has prevented the course of true 
love from running smoothly. This, indeed, is true ; 
but since the Queen's opposition only ceases with her 
death, almost at the end, no use can be made of it in 

Q 



226 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the mechanics of the plot. The obstacles, techni- 
cally so called, must be presented and do their work 
before the close of the First Act. 

As a matter of fact, Shakespeare does not arouse 
us over the Queen's ambition for her son in the same 
degree to which he stirs us by the obstacles in Mac- 
beth. We somehow find ourselves reposing in a sort 
of faith that the author will not suffer Imogen, so far 
as her father and Cloten are concerned, to come to 
harm. But when we are introduced to lachimo, in 
^, ,, . Scene iv, and learn his wish to possess the 

The Major ' ^ ^ 

Obstacle in ring that Posthumus is wearing, the case is 
lachimo. different. Knowing his lago nature, we are 
in very lively concern lest he procure some means of 
compromising Imogen to her husband. The chance 
or probability of this misfortune is the Major Obstacle 
for the present play, and it proceeds from lachimo 
alone. As the scene evolves Posthumus's consent to 
commend lachimo to his wife, we become anxious 
lest Imogen unwittingly afford the villain some op- 
portunity to achieve evidence against her. This fresh 
„, „. concern, which grows acute on the arrival of 
Obstacle in lachimo, or at the beginning of his interview 
Imogen. ^.^^^ Imogen, is the Minor Obstacle ; and it 
proceeds from Imogen's nature almost wholly. It is 
resolved, of course, when lachimo secures Imogen's 
consent to receive the trunk. We had hoped that 
lachimo would not succeed in gulling Imogen into 
any confidence in his words or wishes. But this 
obstacle is resolved tragically, and the First Act 
closes forthwith. The Major Obstacle is likewise re- 



DRAMATIC ART 22/ 

solved tragically when we see lachimo possess him- 
self of the bracelet, in the second scene of the Second 
Act. The play, however, ends comedially in accord- 
ance with the worth of the heroine and the eternal 
fitness of things, yet seems not to have been regarded 
by the author as properly a comedy. It stands last, 
in the Folio of 1623, in the list of tragedies. Re- 
membering the proofs, found lately in our Cymbeiitie 
study of Shakespeare's partiality for this ^ tragedy. 
heroine, we can scarcely wonder. Imogen is of no 
such heroism as befits her to endure the burdens of 
shame and sorrow that are laid upon her. The favour- 
able issue of the plot does not fully make amends. 
So the play may be called a tragedy. 

In The Whiter' s Tale there is no technical question 
about the obstacles. The chief hinderance to the 
royal and domestic feHcity of Hermione and her hus- 
band is unmistakably, the husband's jealousy. We 
hope it will be lifted before alienation ensues, and 
before the matter has become a public scan- Obstacles 
dal. We encounter this obstacle, which is ^^j-^'^f . 

' U inter s 

the Major one, before Polyxenes's answer to Ta/e. 
Hermione is reached. After Polyxenes concludes to 
stay, in the face of troubles that he must know he is 
intensifying, we are exercised over the prospect of 
further mischief. In the week that must now be 
added to his nine months' visit, how shall he escape 
numberless occasions, like these we have just wit- 
nessed, of kindling the rage of Leontes .'' Even his 
presence here, presumed to be due to Hermione's 
attractions, is dangerous to the welfare of the king- 



228 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

dom. Thus Polyxenes, in his person, as well as in 
the things he may do unwittingly, furnishes the Minor 
Obstacle. 

As has been earlier noted, there are properly two 
new situations, each amounting in importance almost 
to a scene, before the close of the First Act, The 
first of these begins at 1. 209, and is devoted to the 
evolution of Camillo's feigned consent to murder 
Polyxenes. At 1. 364 the second of these situations 
is set up : Polyxenes is made to enter and find out 
from Camillo the King's purpose. It is necessary that 
the Minor Obstacle should be resolved tragically. 
Hermione must be tried ; and to that end Leontes's 
jealousy must blaze forth. Polyxenes must furnish 
the occasion ; Hermione cannot. The least costly 
of all possible expedients will be to make Polyxenes 
run away, secretly, and as Leontes will think, guiltily, 
from the Sicilian court. 

The King will at once of course accuse Hermione, 
and the disgraceMl news will be spread throughout 
the kingdom. Then the Major Obstacle also will 
have been tragically resolved. The place where it 
„. „.. is resolved is the second situation in the 

7^1? Marn- 
ier s Tale a Sccond Act. The author does not exalt the 
come y. attack of Lcontcs upon his wife into a spe- 
cific scene ; it is too dismal. But Hermione's pain 
and suffering are much less than her husband's. She 
is stronger than Imogen ; she is more heroic and less 
domestic. So Shakespeare seems to hold that the 
redemption of Leontes and the restoration of Perdita, 
at the end, overweigh the pain they cost, hence enters 



DRAMATIC ART 229 

the play as comedy. It stands last in the list of come- 
dies in the great Folio. 

In Ronico and Juliet the maximum consummation 
rises in our imagination as soon as Juliet is shown. 
Here is the affinity of the hero; we wish TheObsta- 
that Romeo find her, and recognise her rare, ^^^j"^^^ 
strange worth, and win her to himself. But JuUet. 
there is the enmity between the houses — no insig- 
nificant Major Obstacle, certainly. Romeo is to see 
Juliet, through the opportunity of a mask, at her 
father's house. As the moment approaches, a new 
concern takes hold of us. Will not Romeo fail, 
from his abnormal and distant worship of Rosaline, 
to discern Juliet's nature ; and will not Juliet, fancy- 
free, miss the meaning of Romeo's eyes and voice .'' 
This minor anxiety gives way when we hear Romeo 
say and Juliet say what feeUngs have been stirred in 
each. With these somewhat oracular avowals the 
Minor Obstacle is raised comedially, and the First 
Act ends. 

We have realised already, in some measure, what 
the enmity of two great houses must have meant, in 
the fourteenth century, to the hopes of a Juliet and a 
Romeo. They may well pause and count the cost. 
The fiery Capulet will cast out his daughter, per- 
haps strike her dead, when he shall hear ; that Juliet 
knows right well. By making us understand, in the 
first scene of Act II, how indifferent Romeo is to 
the claims of the Montagues, the author centres the 
Major Obstacle in his heroine. The beautiful reso- 
lution of it that comes speedily from her, we know 



230 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

something about already. But there can be no 
effect, from the lifting of these obstacles, in miti- 
gation of the conclusion, which is of the deepest 
tragedy. 

The central climax in these plays is definitely con- 
ceived, and falls, as it should, near the middle of 
The each Third Act and of the piece. In Cym- 

ciimax in^ beliue we recognise the influences of it where 
these plays. (III. iv. 143-156) Imogen accepts the plan of 
leaving Britain for Italy in disguise. In The Winter's 
Tale we find it (III. ii. 154-203) in the King's contri- 
tion and PauHna's over-rhetorical protestations that 
the Queen is dead. In Romeo and Juliet the central 
climax culminates in the fourth scene of the middle act. 

There are other principles of dramatic construction 
that Shakespeare divined and served himself with in 
his maturest work ; but the scope of the present book 
will not include further inquiry of this kind. We are 
trying merely to get a provisional and convincing 
view of Shakespeare's importance as a literary fig- 
ure. We have space left but to show that his genius 
Novels was all-penetrating, and that his principles 
constructed were Universal. It was said some pages 

on Shake- , , , , , i i i i 

speare's back that the novel may be looked upon as 
plan. ^j^ extended drama, the chapters answering 

to scenes. The plan by which English and Ameri- 
can writers of fiction hold the mirror up to nature 
in these days is the same essentially as we have just 
discovered in our consideration of Macbeth. Shake- 
speare was, perhaps, unaware of his processes and 
made for himself no rules, but his tact and penetra- 



DRAMATIC ART 23 1 

tion never failed to supply him with the vital points, 
even in the most refractory material. Almost at the 
beginning of his twenty years of playwright service, 
as early, at least, as the completion of the Romeo and 
Juliet, he had fixed the Hterary norm that the slowly 
evolving novel of the nineteenth century proves to 
have merely reproduced. 

In the typical novel of the day we find the fit 
conclusion brought before the consciousness of the 
reader, to arouse his interest, relatively as early as 
in the plays just studied. In Richard Carvel this is 
done in the second chapter : we hope that nothing 
will come between Richard and his grandfather, that 
Richard may win Dorothy, and fall heir to Richard 
the Hall. Of the obstacles recognised, the Carvd. 
lesser one centres in Dorothy ; she is wilful, and 
may not care for Richard. This obstacle is removed 
before the end of Chapter XI, which in dramatic 
form would close Act I. Chapter XI stops with 
page 1 15, a little past the first fifth of the whole novel. 
The Major Obstacle is plainly our fear of Grafton's 
envy, and it is comfortably resolved in Chapter XV. 
The middle chmax falls in Chapter XXV, where 
Dolly comes to the prison. The whole seems to 
have been written in the development of a dramatic 
outline, such as Shakespeare would have conceived 
from the same material, and expanded into a play of 
thirty-five scenes or more. 

In Scott's Qucntin Dnrivard, which is a good ex- 
ample of the earlier romantic novels, we conceive and 
covet the conclusion before finishing Chapter IV. 



232 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

The first chapter of the volume, like Scott's first 
Quentin chaptcrs generally, is a mere prologue of 
Durward. explanations, and should not be counted. 
Evidently the young woman of the turret chamber is 
of rank ; we wish the hero to speed with her, and to 
get into circumstances where he may conquer a place 
and name worthy of her and of himself. The first 
obstacle is Quentin's unwillingness to take service, 
which is his evident opportunity. This Minor is 
resolved at the end of Chapter VI, where the hero 
has his option of considering himself enrolled in 
Lesly's retinue, or of being hanged. Here the First 
Act of a dramatised Qnentm Durward would end, 
some dozen pages short of the first fifth of the vol- 
ume proper. The Major Obstacle is our concern lest, 
in taking service about Plessis-les-Tours, he shall be 
shut away from the fair lady, with no chance of 
wooing her, or of recommending himself specifi- 
cally and personally to the King. The discovery, 
in Chapter VIII, that Maitre Pierre, who might 
keep Quentin from a free career, is no less than 
Louis himself, and means to keep the youth about 
his person in a post of trust, relieves the reader. 
Of course, to modern readers, the identity of Pierre 
ceases to be a secret several chapters earlier, but 
Scott did not apparently intend or expect his public 
to anticipate this turn. The subjective climax falls 
in Chapter XXI. 

In Meredith's Evatt Harrington, a novel of standard 
quality, published in 1861, we find the same points 
and proportions rather more accurately observed. 



DRAMATIC ART 233 

The consummation, sighted fully in Chapters II and 
IV, involves on Evan's part the saving of Evan Har- 
his father's honour, and the winning of Rose *'^"^^°"- 
Jocelyn. The first of our misgivings or "obstacles" 
is the thought of Evan's refusing to shoulder the 
burden of his father's debts. This is removed at the 
close of Chapter IX, and at the end almost exactly of 
the first fifth of the work. The Major Obstacle is 
our concern lest Evan, by his resolve to manage his 
father's shop, be separated forever from the oppor- 
tunity of recommending himself to Rose. This is 
removed, by the machinations of the Countess, at 
the cricket game in Chapter XIII. The subjective 
climax comes at the middle of the volume, where 
Rose, frightened and humbled at Evan's hurt, is 
ready to brave all for his sake. Mr. Meredith seems 
aware of the dramatic nature of his plot, since at the 
opening of Chapter XXXVIII he announces that he 
has just completed the Fourth Act of his comedy, as 
indeed, according to Shakespeare's scheme, he has. 

In these novels we have again illustrated that the 
ultimate purpose and meaning of a piece of literature, 
whether play or novel, are likely to be far u^jmate 
removed from the outward happenings or meaning of 
aspects of the plot. RicJiard Carvel is not 
merely a novel of adventure, but mainly exalts, in a 
somewhat epic way, the cavalier period in Maryland 
history. Qttentin DurivardyN^.^ not written to furnish 
a romance of Ouentin and Lady Isabelle, but to make 
us acquainted with the character of Louis XI of 
France. The story of the course of their true loves 



234 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

was told chiefly to float the details of the narrative. 
In Evan Harrington the real purpose is to deliver a 
blow at caste. Rose, lovely as she is, counts for 
much less than the hero does, being used as a means 
of measuring to us Evan's heroism, and manhness, 
and, as he considers it, his honour. That he may be 
true to his family and himself, he gives Rose up. It 
is a love-story, to be sure, but this kind of plot is 
chosen mainly to insure a proper personal interest 
in the hero in whom the principle is to be worked 
out. 

Other forms of literature are builded upon the same 
fundamental plan as typical novels, and the plays 
„ . of Shakespeare's school. The Princess of 

Tennyson s ^ 

The Tennyson is constructed like MacbetJi except 

Princess. ^_^^ there are seven parts or acts instead of 
five. The consummation is, of course, the union of 
Ida and the Prince. Two obstacles are used in work- 
ing out the plot, — the aversion of the Princess to men, 
which is the Major, and the escapade of th.e invasion 
and the disguises, which is the Minor. The Minor is 
resolved comedially ; Psyche detects the trick in 
time, and no harm comes from it to the Prince's 
cause. The First Act ends with Part II. The 
second scene of the Second Act centres in the invi- 
tation to go geologising, which resolves the Major 
Obstacle. The Princess is not indifferent to the 
Prince nor even to his ambassadresses ; else she would 
scarcely take her gold plate along, and her satin tent, 
to do honour to her freshman guests. The middle of 
the Third Act falls, of course, in Part IV, where the 



DRAMATIC ART 235 

Princess is rescued by the Prince. Part VII is 
Act V. Act IV comprises Parts V and VI. 

The tendency in modern Hterary evolution is clearly 
toward condensation. The novel is merging into 
the short story; dramatic monologues do The short 
the work of five-act plays. Even here the ^^°^y- 
groundwork of obstacles, or the involving of the plot, 
appears to be preserved. In novels as long as Quo 
Vadis there is the same proportioning, there are the 
same vital points. It would be interesting to make 
comparisons in plays and novels outside of English, 
if time could be spared. The famous Cyj'ano de 
Bergcrac, except that the maximum consummation 
is not sighted till the end of the First Act, is con- 
structed upon Shakespeare's plan. There is as much 
reward in studying the construction of plays, in the 
light of common principles, as in discerning and real- 
ising their ultimate ideas. By searching out these 
things, the humblest reader may concern his mind 
with the deepest problems of art and message that 
authors devote their days and nights to solving. 



VI 

SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 

We have gained some impressions concerning 
Shakespeare as an artist and author, and shall prob- 
ably be interested in learning what may be 
of Shake- told about him biographically as a man. 
speare. Unfortunately we are permitted to know far 
less of his personal than of his literary life. Not 
even the date of his birth has been preserved. In 
the records of Stratford parish it is shown that a 
baby boy was baptized William Shakespeare on the 
26th of April, 1 564. From this it has been inferred 
that the birth date must have been the 23d or the 
22d, but we cannot be sure. The register itself is 
but the copy of a perished original, and shows no 
entry earlier than 1558. 

The first mention of the great poet is thus perpet- 
uated, not inappropriately, in formal Latin, — Guiel- 
mus films Johannes Shakspere. The name of the 
mother, according to the custom of registers, does 
not appear. But it is altogether likely that, could the 
poet's life be told completely, the mother would figure 
not less prominently than the father. Great men not 
seldom derive their strength from the mother's side. 
It has been claimed that John Shakespeare's wife was 
of Celtic stock, and this would be agreeable and 

236 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 237 

illuminating to know, if it could be proved. A dis- 
trict of Warwickshire had for many generations 
belonged to a family of Ardens, with whom the 
attempt has been made to connect the poet's mother. 
Our first knowledge of Shakespeare's mother in 
her home is derived, like most of our information 
about the family, from documents and rec- g, ^, 
ords. Among the earliest entries in the speare's 
Stratford register we learn of the birth and '^°^ ^^' 
death of two baby daughters. Our first glimpse of 
the young mother is a glimpse of grief ; and this cir- 
cumstance of her losing her first children does not 
present her to our imagination as of large presence 
or conspicuous physical strength. Her other chil- 
dren, including the great William, with one exception, 
were not long-lived. The marriage of John Shake- 
speare and Mary Arden is not of record at Aston 
Cantlowe church, where it is supposed to have oc- 
curred, nor elsewhere so far as known. Thomas 
Cromwell's injunction to the clergy, in the reign of 
Henry VHI, to keep registers, seems not to have been 
heeded in Stratford or the parishes round about. 
Twenty years after, in 1558, on the accession of 
Elizabeth, the order was enforced with strictness. 
This was in season to admit the record of the little 
sisters and their famous brother, but not the marriage 
of their parents. It is, however, almost certain that 
this marriage took place in 1557. Robert Arden, the 
bride's father, died in December of 1556; and it 
would seem from the will, dated a few days earlier, 
that his favourite daughter Mary was not married. 



238 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

or yet contracted, at that time. On the 15th of Sep- 
tember, 1558, according to the Stratford register, her 
first child, Joan Shakespeare, was baptized. 

Perhaps Mary Arden would not have married so 

speedily had her father's hfe been spared, Robert 

Arden is believed to have been the landlord 

Shake- 
speare's of John Shakespeare's father. When an 
father. heiress weds a man of the tenant class, 
other things equal, it is not because he is slow-witted 
or unhandsome. There are good and sufficient rea- 
sons for believing that Shakespeare's father was a 
man of very different abilities and accomplishments 
from such as were usually exhibited in that part of 
the country by farmers' sons. Born probably in the 
little hamlet of Snitterfield, four miles northeast 
of Stratford, he seems to have left the home, rented 
from Robert Arden by Richard Shakespeare his 
father, for that borough about 1551. After a shght 
apprenticeship, served we know not how, he began 
the business of deahng in farm products, such as 
grain, malt, wool, hides, tallow, mutton, beef, and 
prospered equally with the other tradesmen of the 
town, many of them doubtless to the manner born. 
It would seem that he was even more successful than 
the most of them. We find him, within ten years of 
his coming to Stratford, elected to offices of responsi- 
bility, and in 1568, after seventeen years of citizen- 
ship, advanced to the position of High Bailiff, the 
last honour in the gift of the Stratford folk. He 
could read and write, and was somewhat expert in 
the management and auditing of accounts. 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 239 

In 1556 John Shakespeare purchased a house and 
garden in Henley Street, presumably with reference 
to the marriage that took place, as we have g, , 
seen, in the following year. In this house, speare's 
or it may be in the one adjoining it on the ^"^"^p'^'^^- 
west, WiUiam Shakespeare was born. There is no 
proof that Shakespeare's father acquired the lat- 
ter property until 1575 ; but it has been conjectured 
that he may have occupied it under lease, even after 
the purchase of the house next it on the east. At 
any rate, it is not the eastern house that is now shown 
as the birthplace of the poet. Here, in the one or 
the other home, it is likely, the parents watched their 
child during the awful summer of 1564. Not many 
weeks after its birth, the plague reached Stratford, 
' In six months one sixth of their neighbours were 
buried. But although there was scarcely a house in 
which there was not one dead, there was a charm 
upon their threshold, and William Shakespeare lived.' 
The lone boy in the cradle, if he had one, was not 
long to live without a playmate. Turning again to 
the register of Stratford church, we find the christen- 
ing of a brother Gilbert in 1 566. There was another 
sister baptized in 1571, but she died before she was 
eight years old. Other children, who all grew to 
maturity, were Joan, christened in 1569, Richard, in 
1574, and Edmund, in 1580. 

Stratford was a good place for a man like Shake- 
speare to be born in. Perhaps no spot in latitudes as 
high could have offered so much for awakening the 
soul of a great poet. The choicest of rural scenery 



240 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

was within sight or reach. There were no mountains, 
gj^ , there was no prospect of the sea ; but there 

speare's was England's best of forest and stream and 
country. mcadow. The land was dotted with little 
hamlets, connected with Stratford by lanes and by- 
ways and sometimes by well-travelled roads. No less 
than a dozen of these humble villages were set within 
five or six miles of Shakespeare's home. Something 
less than four miles east-of-north lay Snitterfield, 
where John Shakespeare seems to have lived as a 
youth and perhaps was born. Three miles north- 
west was Wilmcote, where Robert Arden lived, and 
where John Shakespeare probably won Mary Arden 
for his bride. Two miles farther, in the same direc- 
tion, on the Alne, was Aston Cantlowe, with its parish 
church, where Shakespeare's parents in all likelihood 
went to be wedded. Just out of Stratford, on the 
west, hardly a mile distant, was Shottery, believed to 
have been the home of the woman to whom Shake- 
speare became a husband. 

But Stratford, in spite of the humble and secluded 
life led by its folk, was within the echo of the great 
world. On the highroad north and east, twenty 
miles distant, lay Coventry, accounted the third city 
of the kingdom, with its stately buildings, its 
legends, and its monastic memories. The 
Godiva pageants were celebrated in Shakespeare's 
day, and are kept up even yet. The ancient Mys- 
teries, though already distanced far in a dramatic 
evolution that the man from Stratford was to com- 
plete, were still rendered just as of old. When 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 24I 

Shakespeare was sixteen, in 1580, these plays were 
virtually suppressed; but it is conceivable that he 
was enterprising enough before that age to have 
found his way, with or without tutelage, to the fa- 
mous spectacles. His references to Termagant and 
Herod seem to come from no second-hand acquaint- 
ance with those blusterous, raging characters from 
the Mysteries. Five miles nearer Stratford were 
the town and castle of Kenilworth, where Kenii- 
Leicester had been installed by the Queen's worth, 
favour in the year of Shakespeare's birth. The mag- 
nificence of such a figure, who aspired even to the 
hand of his sovereign, could not have failed to 
quicken the slowest bucolic fancy in days like those. 
Surely the splendour of the masques and sports with 
which Leicester entertained the Queen, in the sum- 
mer of 1575, for seventeen days, must have reached 
the mind of Shakespeare, and lifted it to the level 
of princely contemplation. It is indeed far from 
likely that John Shakespeare shut himself up in 
Stratford throughout this festival, and deprived him- 
self, his wife, and his son from witnessing some part 
of pageants hardly to be matched in Christendom. 
On the same highway, five miles nearer 

•^ Warwick. 

home, stood Warwick, with its memorials 
and memories of great men. The commoner sort of 
people throughout the shire must have known the 
story of Earl Thomas, who led the English knights at 
Cressy, and were perhaps talking with unabated won- 
der yet of the great Richard who made and unmade 
kings at will. The country abounded in scenes and 



242 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

monuments that spoke eloquently of the past, from 
battle grounds and feudal castles to parish churches 
and Ichnield Street. To a mind like Shakespeare's 
all legends and reminders of this sort must have been 
significant and inspiring. 

For such endowments and possibilities as were 
Shakespeare's, something of education was a vital 
The Free need. There was already, as by marvel, a 
Sch™oTof school in waiting. While Mary Arden could 
Stratford, not read, nor John Shakespeare do much 
more perhaps than write his name, it was possible for 
their son to know the best things, in kind, that Eng- 
land then gave to her youth of privilege. As early 
as 1482 Thomas Jolyffe had granted the foundation 
for the Free Grammar School of Stratford. The con- 
ditions were that the Guild of the Holy Cross, which 
controlled the lands and houses, should maintain a 
priest * fit and able in knowledge to teach grammar 
freely to all scholars coming to the school in the said 
town to him.* After the Reformation, which dis- 
solved of course the Guild, the revenues were rescued 
and reapplied by a charter of Edward VI. The 
school founded and made available thus for Shake- 
speare has not ceased yet its work. The Guild Hall 
and Grammar School, on Church Street of Old Strat- 
ford, stands as it did, joined at an angle greater than 
a right angle with the Guild Chapel, which extended 
along Chapel Lane. The schoolroom, which was in 
the second story, measured sixt3'-eight feet by twenty- 
two, and had beams overhead in lieu of ceiling. The 
Guild Chapel (84 x 25) was somewhat larger. 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 243 

It is by no means certain that Shakespeare was 
ever at school in the room over the town hall, just 
described. There is an entry in the corporation 
books of March 5, 1595, to the effect that 'there 
shall be no school kept in the Chapel from this time 
following.' It seems likely that the work of the 
school, begun perhaps after Edward's charter in the 
Chapel of the Guild, was changed at that date to 
the room now used. It is more than probable that 
Shakespeare was a pupil in this school in 1571, or a 
little later. Walter Roche was then master, and was 
succeeded by Thomas Hunt six years after. One or 
the other of these, or perhaps both, must What 
have given Shakespeare instruction. Latin ^ g^^j.^" 
was certainly administered to him, and al- studied, 
most as certainly through the medium of Lily's 
Grammar ; and he may have read something from 
Plautus, Terence, and Horace, as well as Cicero and 
Vergil. There is no evidence that Greek was taught 
in Stratford at this time, or that Shakespeare studied 
it there or elsewhere. 

Thus the son of the wool-dealer in Henley Street 
reached an acquaintance with the Latin element in 
English, without which he could not have become 
Shakespeare to the world. To have known Greek 
might have increased his power ; not to have known 
Latin would have given him a diction want- gj^^^j^g. 
ing in universalness, and shorn of literary speare's 
strength. With it he has surpassed all 
other wielders of the English tongue. He has 
profited by Latin idioms for terseness and potencies 



244 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

not otherwise in reach. His taste was sometimes 
faulty, because the taste of the day was yet imperfect. 
But he often effects a classic turn that for neatness 
and certitude puts the pedants to confusion. Shake- 
speare's knowledge of French and Italian, for he 
seems to have had some first-hand acquaintance with 
both these languages, must have been derived from 
later study. 

How long Shakespeare's school days lasted, there 
is no means of knowing. In 1577 his father's pros- 
perity began to wane. This circumstance is believed 
to have sent the lad to his first work as a wage-earner. 
There are other hints and scraps of evidence that the 
poet began to learn something of the serious side of 
life at about this time. His father's fortunes refused 
to mend. In the autumn of 1578 he was forced to 
secure a loan of ^^40, something like ;^320, or $1600 
of present money, by mortgaging his wife's estate at 
Asbies. In the next year his daughter Anne died. 
All references and records concerning him in the 
next ten years tell of little else than distress and 
humiliation, and even pursuit, because of creditors. 
In 1592 John Shakespeare is reported, with eight 
others, ' for not coming monthly to church according 
to her majesty's laws,' the reason being not Popish 
recusancy, but fear of process for debt. During this 
period it may be fairly assumed that the eldest son 
aided in the support of the family ; but whether he 
served as a butcher, a lawyer's clerk, or a country 
schoolmaster, as has been variously maintained, there 
is no evidence to determine. 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 245 

However much the younger Shakespeare may have 
helped his mother in the cares and burdens of her 
household, on the first coming of evil days, it seems 
clear that this aid was not increased with the appar- 
ently increasing needs. After 1582 we find him 
weighted with domestic burdens of his own ; the 
stripling Shakespeare, not yet nineteen, has made 
himself a husband. The story is scarcely gj^^j^^. 
pleasing, and involves some mysteries. In speare's 
Shottery, according to the records, there ™^"'^s^- 
were three families bearing the name of Hathaway. 
The head of one of these, known as Richard, made in 
1 581 a will, and by one provision of it left the sum of 
£^6, 13J., dfd. to a daughter Agnes, to be paid to her 
on the day of her marriage. This Richard Hathaway 
is identified as the farmer who owned and lived in the 
house, now considerably reduced and altered, which 
is shown as Anne Hathaway's cottage. Agnes and 
Anne were often treated as variants of the same 
name. As had happened in Robert Arden's family, 
there was a marriage soon after the father's death ; 
for the Stratford register shows the birth of a daugh- 
ter Susanna to William Shakespeare on the 26th of 
May, 1583. No record of the marriage of Anne 
Hathaway to William Shakespeare seems to be 
anywhere extant. But in the consistorial court of 
Worcester there is a document which proves that the 
marriage was licensed unusually and could not have 
taken place earher than November 28, preceding the 
date of the document in question. By this instru- 
ment, Fulk Sandells and John Richardson, husband- 



246 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

men of Stratford, assume suretyship in the sum of 
p^40, that no damage shall accrue to the Bishop of 
Worcester in consequence of Hcensing the marriage 
of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway on once 
asking of the bans. According to the inscription on 
Anne Shakespeare's tombstone, she had reached at 
this time the age of twenty-six. Under date of 
February 2, 1585, we find entered in the Stratford 
register the birth of Hamnet and Judith Shakespeare, 
twins. 

There were other William Shakespeares in the see 
of Worcester, to which the Stratford parishes be- 
longed, at this time ; and another of these Williams 
secured a license at the bishop's court, in the same 
fashion, on November 27, to marry a certain Anne 
Whately, from near Stratford. There cannot be 
question which William Shakespeare became after- 
ward the great playwright. Fulk Sandells and John 
Richardson seem not to have been representatives 
of the bridegroom, who was perhaps with them, but 
of the family of the bride. Sandells is mentioned 
in her father's will as a ' trustie frende and neighbour,' 
and Richardson was probably the John Richardson 
who, with his mark, witnessed the will. In a bond 
of the sort executed by these men, the consent of the 
parents or ' frendes ' of the groom as well as of the 
bride was requisite, but in this one no reference to 
Shakespeare's family appears. As the groom was a 
minor, the omission is the more remarkable. Shake- 
speare himself, as has been said, may have been 
present and able to assure the bishop's officer, or John 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 247 

Shakespeare may have been of the party and testi- 
fied to his willingness in person. Shakespeare's 
father, being at this time in financial straits, would 
not be expected to add his name to the bond, while 
Sandells and Richardson for their part would scarcely 
wish to assume suretyship in his behalf. An instru- 
ment of this one-sided character would be recognised 
by any clergyman acquainted with both contracting 
parties and their families, and such a clergyman 
undoubtedly performed the ceremony. It has been 
conjectured, it would seem with no great unwilling- 
ness, by writers affecting to regard the ^ 
great interpreter and worshipper of woman- contract of 
hood as no better than the commonest of "^^"'^s^- 
men, that Shakespeare did not marry Anne Hatha- 
way save by compulsion. Nothing is clearer than 
that Shakespeare could have avoided this union had 
he so willed. There were cases enough in Stratford, 
if the birth records are to be trusted, of men who 
ought to have been husbands, but had escaped be- 
coming such. There is small reason for assuming 
that Shakespeare was less adventurous and resource- 
ful, whether or not he were better in ideals and 
morals, than these young townsmen. There is evi- 
dence, moreover, that the marriages of those days 
were almost always preceded by a more or less 
formal contract, which had all the legal force of a 
marriage proper. This was generally followed by 
the priestly ceremonial, though sometimes after much 
delay. Robert Arden mentions his daughter Agnes, 
in a certain instrument, as the * wife ' of Thomas 



248 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? ■ 

Stringer, although we know that the religious mar- 
riage was not solemnised until fully three months 
after the date borne by the document. In Bishop 
Watson's Doctrine of the Seven Sacrametits, published 
in 1558, it is observed that persons united by pre- 
contract are * perfectly married together ' ; while 
' the marriage of them in the face of the Church 
afterward, by the ministration of the priest, is not 
superfluous, but much expedient for sundry causes.' 
The sense of the times in such matters seems to have 
been recognised by Shakespeare in two of the plays 
considered in the present volume. In TJie Winter s 
Tale he appears to have thought a pre-contract neces- 
sary, and sufficient, for Perdita and Florizel, before 
their journey to Sicily together. By like means, he 
secures to Olivia, in TwelftJi Night, legal authority 
over the wavering affections, as she supposes, of the 
Duke's messenger {cf. p. 405). That there was a pre- 
contract in the instance in question must not be 
affirmed, nor indeed denied ; neither is it charity or 
good morals to insist that, where conditions of honour- 
able union were so easy, there was deliberate wrong. 
Whatever, as regards Anne Hathaway, the case may 
mean, the burden of proof is against those who assume 
or affirm that Shakespeare was not in all the affair 
wholly chivalrous and noble. 

After this marriage, the page is blank again. 
The deer- Whether Shakespeare lived with his parents 
stealing in Henley Street, or whether he was able 
episo e. already to maintain a home of his own, there 
is not so much as a hint in knowledge. We can 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 249 

be sure of nothing further than that, after the birth 
of Hamnet and Judith, in February, 1585, Shake- 
speare went to London. It is hardly possible that he 
went earlier than this year, or that his going was 
much more than a year later. There is a tradition 
that his departure was hastened by the persecutions 
of Sir Thomas Lucy, living at the hall in Charlcote, 
some four miles east of Stratford, on the Avon. 
Sir Thomas was a member of Parliament, an ex- 
high sheriff and a justice of the peace, and pursued 
Shakespeare, according to the story, for repeatedly 
breaking into his park enclosures and stealing his 
deer. There is no unlikelihood that Shakespeare had 
some part in the deer-stealing. That was a common 
enough offence against the gentry, and was looked 
upon as no worse morally, as some one has said, than 
the melon-stealing of a later day. When a man from 
such a community becomes great, popular report con- 
cerning him, at least for a generation or two, is apt 
to be correct. One item in the tradition, to the effect 
that Shakespeare avenged himself by lampooning 
his pursuer, is significant and invites acceptance of 
the whole. Shakespeare would be altogether likely 
to use the weapons that we know he had. The 
alleged first stanza of his pasquinade, remembered 
and contributed by an old resident, and containing 
puns on the family name, is extant, and can hardly 
be accounted for as a bucolic fabrication, sir Thomas 
Shakespeare seems to have cherished no jus'jfcr 
lasting fondness for th'e Lucys, and prob- Shallow. 
ably by the character of Justice Shallow, in Merry 



250 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Wives, gives some further expression to his satiric 
feeling. This play, at opening, presents Shallow 
threatening to make a star-chamber matter of a cer- 
tain culprit's poaching. Immediate reference is then 
made to his rank and pedigree and coat of arms. 
The Lucy coat showed three luces, or pikes, argent. 
In Justice Shallow's coat this number is, increased to 
twelve, and Sir Hugh Evans is made presently (I. i. 
19, 20) to affirm that 'the dozen white louses do 
become an old coat well.' There can be small 
doubt that we have here an echo of the old feud and 
the old joke. 

What Shakespeare did when he arrived in London, 
or what he expected to do on reaching there, are little 
better than matters of conjecture. It is possible that 
he went on purpose to join some company of players, 
for he had undoubtedly seen several such perform at 
Stratford, and been quickened by their appeal to the 
imaginative life. Sir William Davenant, who affected 
to know more about Shakespeare's private history than 
anybody else, is said to be authority for the statement 
that he worked first before The Theatre in Shore- 
ditch, holding horses for the gentry who frequented 
there. This playhouse, which had been running since 
1 577, was owned by the father of Richard Burbage, the 
great tragic actor of later days. The Curtain, which 
was the only Enghsh playhouse as yet in existence, 
besides The Theatre, was situated near it, and had 
perhaps been in operation almost as long. In one of 
these, certainly, Shakespeare soon found employment. 
In 1587 Shakespeare's name appears in conjunction 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 25 I 

with his father's in an effort to make over the title of 
the Asbies estate to John Lambert, on condition of 
receiving from Lambert ^20. It is beheved that 
this attempted transfer, which belongs to September 
of the year named, drew Shakespeare home to 
Stratford. 

For the next five years the record of Shakespeare's 
life is without entries. In 1592 his name appears 
under circumstances that argue a marked The attack 
change in his condition. He is grown to be of Greene, 
of importance enough to have excited the jealousy of 
one of the first playwrights of the day, a Cambridge 
graduate, widely travelled and of unusual accomplish- 
ments, and to have suffered from him a bitter per- 
sonal attack. Robert Greene, once in orders, and 
now at the end of his career as a dramatist and poet, 
writes of him thus in his Groats-wort Ji of Wit Bought 
with a Million of Repentaimce : ' There is an upstart 
crow, beautified with our feathers, that, with his Ty- 
lers heart wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as 
well able to bumbast out a blanke verse as the best 
of you; and being an Qhsohitt Johajines Factotum, is 
in his own conceit the onely Shake-scene in a coun- 
trie. O that I might intreate your rare wits to be 
imployed in more profitable courses, and let those 
apes imitate your past excellence, and never more 
acquaint them with your admired inventions ! I 
know the best husband of you all will never prove 
an usurer, and the kindest of them all wil never 
proove a kinde nurse ; yet, whilst you may, seeke 
you better maisters, for it is pittie men of such rare 



252 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

wits should be subject to the pleasures of such rude 
groomes.' The death-bed warning, of which these 
sentences form a part, is addressed to three fellow- 
dramatists, presumably Marlowe and Nash and 
Lodge, who are exhorted to mend all their evil ways 
as well as to refrain from play-making henceforward. 
Of the italicised expressions, which are printed as 
they appear in the pamphlet, the first is plainly bur- 
lesqued from this line (I. iv. 137) in the Third Part 
of Henry VI, — 

O tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide. 

The play just named is one of those that Shakespeare 
is known to have revised, and may have been origi- 
nally in part the work of Greene. From the part 
of the pamphlet quoted, it is evident that Shake- 
speare is now an actor, and that he has been looked 
upon hitherto as not at all belonging to the class of 
persons that should presume to write blank verse or 
recast a play. How brilliantly he has done work 
of this 'Johannes factotum' sort we may read in the 
rancour of a dying man, who is trying to exhibit a 
Christian spirit. It is known that, in February of 
this year, the company of players to which Shake- 
speare belonged had opened a third playhouse, 
called 'The Rose.' It seems to have been in con- 
sequence of new demands originating here that 
Shakespeare's powers were first called to use. 

The abuse thus publicly administered to Shake- 
speare might have been, by an untutored, bucolic 
'groom,' not altogether undeserved. There is evi- 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 253 

dence, however, that it was quite uncalled for, and 
that Shakespeare was recognised already as ^^^ 
a man not only of rare cleverness, but of Chettie's 
signally courteous and upright behaviour. ^p°'°^- 
Greene's pamphlet, finished but a little before his 
death, was put into the hands of one Henry Chettle, 
who edited it and saw it through the press. Three 
months later, Chettle published a Httle book of his 
own, called Kind-Harts Dreame, and in the introduc- 
tion to this he apologises for allowing Greene's abuse 
to see the Hght. " How I," he writes, " have all the 
time of my conversing in printing hindred the 
bitter inveying against schollers, it hath been very 
well knowne ; and how in that I dealt, I can suffi- 
ciently proove. With neither of them that take offence 
was I acquainted, and with one of them I care not if 
I never be. Tho other, whome at that time I did 
not so much spare as since I wish I had, for that, as 
I have moderated the heate of living writers, and 
might have usde my owne discretion, — especially in 
such a case, the author beeing dead, — that I did not 
I am as sory as if the originall fault had beene my 
fault, because myselfe have scene his demeanor no 
lesse civill, than he exelent in the qualitie he pro- 
fesses ; — besides, divers of worship have reported 
his uprightnes of dealing, which argues his honesty, 
and his facetious grace in writting, that aprooves his 
art." This is a good report of the man who came 
to London six years ago. The persons ' of wor- 
ship ' who have testified to Shakespeare's upright- 
ness of dealing, are pretty surely not his employers 



254 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

or companions in the theatre ; he has made friends 
among folk of rank and influence in the city. He 
has the manners and bearing of a gentleman, and is 
as conspicuous in such accomplishments as he is 
excellent in his 'quahty' or profession as an actor. 
Moreover, his facility and grace in writing seem to 
have been recognised already, by his patrons and 
admirers, as remarkable, in spite of Marlowe and 
Greene and Peele, with all their learning and pres- 
tige. Though Shakespeare has entered this brilliant 
and fascinating circle of playwrights and players 
under circumstances that tend most subtly and 
strongly to undermine his character, he keeps his 
head, and is advancing rapidly to the front, 

Chettle's reference to Shakespeare as of recognised 
eminence in the work of acting squares well with 
what is known of his prominence in the company in 
which he played. According to an act of Parliament, 
passed in the Ferrex and Porrex period of British 
stage history, when acting had come to be a specific 
occupation, all troupes of players were obliged to 
appear under the patronage of some nobleman or 
person of great influence and following at court. 
The company toward which Shakespeare seems to 
have been attracted was naturally enough the one 
licensed by the Earl of Leicester. Afterward this 
company came under the protection of the Lord 
Chamberlain, and in 1603 of no less a personage than 
King James. It is of record that the Lord Chamber- 
Iain's Company played two comedies before Queen 
Elizabeth, in December, 1594, but only Kemp and 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 255 

Shakespeare and Burbage are named specifically. 
Kemp was the first among the comedy actors ^Y\ake- 
of this time, as Burbage was first among speare as 
tragedians. If Shakespeare were named ^'^^'^°'^' 
here because he is a playwright, he would be en- 
tered probably before Kemp. If he were but a 
sorry actor of comedy, he would surely stand after 
Burbage, or not appear at all. Among nine of the 
actors in the King's Company, mentioned in James's 
license, Shakespeare again is second, being preceded 
by Lawrence Fletcher, and followed by Richard 
Burbage. The provisions of the license are ex- 
tended, beyond the nine actors named, ' to the rest 
of their associates ' ; which would imply some dozen 
or fifteen as the full membership of the company. 
In the list of players who took part in the first presen- 
tation of Jonson's Every Man in his Hiwioiiry Shake- 
speare stands at the head ; and among the players 
that appear in the first edition of Scjanus, by the 
same author, Shakespeare and Burbage rank alike. 
Moreover, in a list of the ' principal ' actors of 
Shakespeare's plays, prefixed to the Folio of 1623, 
Shakespeare's is the first of twenty-six names, with 
Burbage following. Shakespeare's dramatic great- 
ness probably accounts for his name being the first 
one in the list, but does not account for his name 
being in the list. If he had not been an unusually 
good actor, the playhouse brotherhood, which was 
jealous of the interests of each member, and fixed the 
degrees of merit, would presumably not have suffered 
his being ranked as on a par with Burbage. 



256 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

That Shakespeare became a successful actor in 
the theatre of Elizabethan times must mean that 
Shake ^^ ^^^ °^ good presence and figure, and 
speare's that he was sprightly and graceful of man- 
'^^^"' ner. He can hardly be thought of as actu- 

ally rivalling the strongest type of players, — for 
there were giants in those days, — mainly perhaps on 
account of voice, which may have lacked the timbre 
essential to heroic parts. There is no suggestion of 
effeminacy about Shakespeare ; but his kindUness and 
sympathy toward children and women scarcely argue 
the brawn and weight of a Burbage personality. 
There are traditions that he played the Ghost in 
Hamlet and Adam in As You Like It, roles evidently 
within the vocal Hmits of the man supposed. It is 
probable that Shakespeare was at his best in some 
main parts of the comedy series, as Benedict, Petru- -^ 
chio, Antonio, Shylock, Jaques, though we can 
agreeably conceive him his own best Romeo, Mer- 
cutio, Horatio, Posthumus, Menenius, PhiHp Faul- 
conbridge, and Enobarbus, and many other such 
characters in the histories and tragedies. He is 
mentioned once in an epigram, by John Davies of 
Hereford, as a ' player of kingly parts in sport.' 
It goes without saying that Shakespeare compre- 
hended the r61es that he created better than the 
actors whom he set and coached to carry them re- 
spectively ; and that, except for histrionic limitations, 
he could have taken the several parts himself better 
than anybody else. It is at least significant that he 
continued in the quality of an actor, in spite of his 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 257 

princely income, and the exactions of playwriting 
and management, till the full close of his dramatic 
career. 

It is not to be supposed that Shakespeare worked 
for any length of time at mending plays before dis- 
covering that he could make good ones for y^n^s and 
himself. Yet if his own statement is to be Adonis. 
taken seriously, it was not a drama that received his 
first constructive effort. Near the middle of 1593 ap- 
peared his Ve7ius and Adonis, declared in the dedica- 
tion to Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, to 
be 'the first heir of his invention.' The author of 
this venture has manifestly learned the ways of the 
world, and conceived some confidence in his ability 
to please one of the richest and most accomplished 
young noblemen of the whole kingdom. Southamp- 
ton was understood to have no especial antipathy to 
poems of an amatory nature, and this may account 
for something in the product not wholly to the 
author's mind. ' I know not,' he says, ' how I shall 
offend in dedicating my vnpolisht lines to your Lord- 
ship, nor how the worlde will censure mee for choos- 
ing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burthen, 
onelye if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account 
myselfe highly praised, and vowe to take aduantage 
of all idle houres, till I haue honoured you with some 
grauer labour.' Shakespeare seems to have guessed 
well what the public, if not his patron, wanted, and 
seven editions were called for in hardly more than as 
many years. The Veniis is not only an interpreta- 
tion, with considerable Renaissance freedom, of the 



258 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Goddess consciousness on its human side toward a 
Galahad ideal of the Greek mind ; it is no less a 
study of that ideal itself. This second feature 
seems, not perhaps inexplicably, to have been gen- 
erally overlooked. In consequence Shakespeare has 
been credited with the baser and not the better 
motive of the theme. It is at least the only time 
that this author may be claimed to have made to him- 
self friends of the somewhat erotic license of the day. 
It was a sure path to pubHc favour, but Shakespeare 
avoided it ever after. 

In the next year the graver labour promised by 

Shakespeare to his patron was brought out by the 

same printer under the title of L2icrece, 

LucvccB, 

Though like the Venus essentially in form 
and measure, it was in spirit and purpose a very dif- 
ferent piece of work. It is a study in the sentiments 
of a wronged woman, whose integrity and greatness 
of soul subordinate her plight, and whose womanly 
devotion rises to the strength of passion, and merges 
all willingness to live. Those who bought the Liicrece 
to gratify a salacious craving, found themselves per- 
vaded by very different influences, and wholly such 
as were wrought by the Juliet, and Hermione, and 
Imogen of later years. Tarquin, the counterpart 
study here, though handled with a potent moral pur- 
pose, has been as much ignored as the secondary 
figure in the earher piece. There is no such repres- 
sion or repose in these poems as we find in Cynibe- 
line and TJie Whiter'' s Tale ; but there are the same 
clairvoyance and the same sympathy, in full develop- 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 259 

ment, that have made Shakespeare in other works 
the world's interpreter of woman to her sex. Both 
these poems are hixuriant and crude, and betray the 
shadow of the workman upon his work. But there 
are withal a fertility of phrase, a sureness of concep- 
tion and of stroke, and a sturdy defeat of all 
restraints of rhyme and meter, that proclaim the 
present mastery of the author's mind. The new 
poem was naturally dedicated to the same patron, 
who is reputed to have furnished Shakespeare with a 
very substantial indorsement of the work. But the 
story, as told by Davenant, that he gave the poet 
;^iooo, while not incredible, is most hkely an 
exaggeration. Indeed, were it not for the fact that 
Shakespeare is soon found investing considerable 
money in his home town, and that Southampton is 
talked of there generally as having supplied it, we 
might dismiss the item as wholly mythical. 

In 1593 the theatres, we are told, were closed on 
account of the plague, and Shakespeare's leisure 
for authorship may have been in conse- The public 
quence more ample. In the winter of this *^^'^' 
year the tragedy of Titus Androiiicns, at least in part 
the work of Shakespeare, was presented with great 
success. This play, though impracticable and repel- 
lent enough, by present standards, is known to have 
been thoroughly acceptable to the theatre-going pub- 
lic of the day. Nothing was seemingly too bloody 
and sensational for the general taste. This is a fact 
to be remembered in evaluating Shakespeare's popu- 
larity and influence with later plays, and his service 



260 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

to the stage in making them different from the ac- 
cepted models. An edition of the play just named 
was printed in 1594 ; but whether it was identical with 
the Quarto issued in 1600, and essentially our present 
text, cannot be shown. In December of 1594 Shake- 
speare played before the Queen at Greenwich, as has 
been noted, in two comedies, and at this time, proba- 
bly as actor rather than author, won her admiration. 
On the evening of Innocents' Day, December 28, a 
play was rendered at Gray's Inn which is confidently 
believed to have been TJie Comedy of Errors. Other 
plays, as KiJig JoJm, Richard II, and Richard III , are 
referred to this year or to the one succeeding. 

There can be little doubt that Shakespeare worked 
industriously at play-making in 1595. Several pieces 
that cannot be assigned to the later dates must have 
taken shape within the year. Shakespeare is now 
easily the first figure in dramatic authorship. Mar- 
lowe, who seems to have been for a time his teacher, 
but whose ambitious and blustering manner he has 
outgrown, has been dead two years. Lyly and 
Greene and Peele are as good as obsolete. There is 
yet much of development to be compassed, at least 
in form. His lines are end-stopped, as well as harsh 
sometimes and forced. But his observation, his wit, 
his vision, seem perfect now. He has grown-up con- 
fidence, too, in life and truth as the sole basis of dra- 
matic endeavour and success. If he has ever been 
Romeo timorous or discouraged, his days of doubt 
and Juliet. jY^yst havc some time since passed away. In 
1596 we find evidence that the Romeo and Juliet was 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 26 1 

brought out at The Curtain, and with unexampled 
favour. It seems to have made its author the Hon of 
society, and the most distinguished poet as well as 
dramatist in the kingdom. 

In August of this year Hamnet, son of the poet, 
died at Stratford, and was buried there. No syllable 
of evidence exists concerning the lad's promise, or 
his father's hopes or grief. There are many indica- 
tions that Shakespeare's prosperity and popularity 
are beginning to reach his native borough. He 
seems to have released his father from debt, and 
to have established him beyond the necessity of 
meddling further with the uncertainties of trade. 
There is evidence that John Shakespeare had taken 
steps, some time before October of the same year, 
to secure a coat of arms from the Heralds' ^ , , 

Grant of 

College. The application was not honoured coat 
until further effort, three years later, in 1 599. ^™°'^'"- 
But it is significant that the man who, as late as 1592, 
had been reported for non-attendance at church from 
fear of bailiffs, was now seeking a distinction that few 
citizens of Stratford had enjoyed. The expense of 
securing the honour was certainly not borne by him. 
In the spring of 1597 Shakespeare bought the great 
house, built by Sir Hugh Clopton before 1500, and 
with it grounds of nearly an acre in extent. This es- 
tate, known as New Place, was situated at the 

New Place. 

corner of Church Street and Chapel Lane, 
just across the latter from Guild Chapel. The house, 
though built substantially of brick, and with more 
prospect of permanency than any dwelling besides in 



262 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Stratford, is not in existence now, having been taken 
down at the close of the seventeenth century. The 
buildings and grounds had not been well cared for, 
and Shakespeare paid for the property but £60. 
That some or all of the purchase money came from 
the donative of Southampton to Shakespeare, is a 
tradition, and may be true. 

The year 1597 is an important one in the poet's 
history. It is not clear that the substantial, book- 
Ouarto of buying public had been much reached by 
Ro?iieo and his popularity hitherto. But now certainly 
■^ '^'' the cultivated people of the city were clam- 
ouring for the Romeo and Juliet in printed form. That 
the demand was urgent, seems clear from the fact 
that two fonts of type were used to set up the work. 
This first printing did not, however, give the public 
an authentic text, but a patchwork substitute, made 
up apparently from short-hand notes and remembered 
passages. The owners of copyright plays were not 
likely to encourage the circulation of their property 
as literature, and would undoubtedly have suppressed 
all attempts of this kind, if legal measures could have 
been used as effectually as now. RicJiard II and 
Richard III , the latter always a popular play, were 
issued in quarto form this year. Thus was the foun- 
dation of Shakespeare's fame as a poet and literary 
master securely laid. Before the close of 1597 the 
records show that John and Mary Shakespeare entered 
suit in Chancery against John Lambert for the recov- 
ery of Asbies, another proof that means as well as 
courage had come back to the elder Shakespeares at 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 263 

Stratford. Meanwhile, the multiplication of plays 
went on. At Christmas it is known that Loves 
Labour s Lost was performed before Elizabeth at 
Whitehall. Shakespeare's receipts must have by 
this time become considerable. The lowest sum 
received for a play was hardly less than $250 of 
present money, and might be almost twice as much. 
Shakespeare's dramas, we may be sure, gj^ake- 
brought as high a price as anybody's. His speare's 
salary as an actor, with perquisites and 
gifts, has been estimated as not less than $4000 a 
year. Two or three years later, after he becomes 
a partner in theatrical management, his income will 
be four or five times as much. His means have 
been at every point sufficient to account for the 
prosperity and the transactions of which we know. 
TJie First Part of King Henry Fourth belongs prob- 
ably to this year, 1597, since it is entered in the 
Stationer's Register in 1598. The MercJiant of Venice 
followed it in the year last named. 

In 1598 begins Shakespeare's professional associ- 
ation with Ben Jonson, who has furnished us with 
the largest and best part of our know- Ben 
ledge concerning him as a man. Jonson Jo"son. 
possessed considerable learning of the kind fostered 
in those days, and had perhaps somewhat earlier 
essayed stage work. He sadly lacked the tact and 
touch requisite for success with a public almost 
wholly in sympathy with Shakespeare's school. Jon- 
son, according to Rowe's account, had brought to 
Shakespeare's company one of his plays, ' in order 



264 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

to have it acted ; and the persons into whose hands 
it was put, after having turn'd it carelessly and super- 
ciliously over, were just upon returning it to him with 
an ill-natur'd answer that it would be of no service 
to their company, when Shakespear luckily cast his 
eye upon it, and found something so well in it as to 
engage him first to read it through, and afterwards 
to recommend Mr. Jonson and his writings to the 
publick.' This piece, which was undoubtedly Every 
Man in his Humour, was brought out, as we have 
seen, with Shakespeare in the cast, and was success- 
ful. It was at best but an indifferent play, as judged 
by the standards of the company, and the kindness 
with which Shakespeare commended it to the public, 
if he did commend it, cannot but be held symptomatic 
of his mind. There was no reason, except from out- 
side his eminence as a playwright, that could have 
prompted him to regard the piece differently from 
the other players who turned it carelessly and super- 
cihously over. ' After this,' Rowe says, ' they were 
profess'd friends ; tho' I don't know whether the 
other ever made him an equal return of gentleness 
and sincerity. Ben was naturally proud and insolent, 
and, in the days of his reputation, did so far take 
upon him the supremacy in wit, that he could not but 
look with an evil eye upon any one that seem'd to 
stand in competition with him.' Jonson's own testi- 
mony, written perhaps twenty years after the death 
of Shakespeare, is not less strong : ' I lov'd the man, 
and doe honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as 
much as any. Hee was, indeed, honest, and of an 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 265 

open and free nature ; had an excellent phantsie ; 
brave notions and gentle expressions ; wherein hee 
flow'd with that facility that sometime it was neces- 
sary he should be stop'd.' These sentences are pre- 
ceded and followed by certain qualifications regarding 
his taste and style, which will be given later. A more 
extended and perhaps better-considered eulogium, be- 
ginning,— 

To draw no enuy (Shakespeare) on thy name. 
Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame : 

While I confesse thy writings to be such. 
As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much, — 

was contributed by him to the Folio edition of Shake- 
speare pubhshed in 1623. 

Further testimony as to the esteem in which 
Shakespeare's work has come to be regarded dates 
from this year. In the same month in which Paiiadis 
Shakespeare was helping bring out Ben Jon- ^<^'«"'- 
son's comedy, Francis Meres's Paiiadis Tamia ap- 
peared. In this the author, who was a man of learn- 
ing, makes a summary of literary names, classical and 
English, associating Shakespeare with authors greatly 
his inferior, and praising all indiscriminately. 'As the 
Greeke tongue,' he says, 'is made famous and eloquent 
by Homer, Hesiod, Euripedes, ^schilus, Sophocles, 
Pindarus, Phocylides, and Aristophanes ; and the 
Latine tongue by Virgill, Ovid, Horace, Silius Italicus, 
Lucanus, Lucretius, Ausonius, and Claudianus; so the 
Enghsh tongue is mightily enriched and gorgeouslie 
invested, in rare ornaments and resplendent abili- 
ments, by Sir Philip Sidney, Spencer, Daniel, Dray- 



266 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

ton, Warner, Shakespeare, Marlow, and Chapman.' 
In another connection he mentions, as best for 
tragedy, ' Lorde Buckhurst, Doctor Leg of Cam- 
bridge, Doctor Edes of Oxforde, maister Edward 
Ferris, the authour of the Mirrour for Magistrates, 
Marlow, Peele, Watson, Kid, Shakespeare, Drayton, 
Chapman, Decker, and Benjamin Johnson'; and 
as ' the best for comedy amongst us ' he includes 
Shakespeare as the ninth in a list of seventeen names. 
But the judgments of Meres in the book at large are 
redeemed by two sentences, in which he treats of 
Shakespeare by himself. ' As the soule of Euphor- 
bus,' he says, 'was thought to live in Pythagoras, 
so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous 
and hony-tongued Shakespeare ; witnes his Venus 
and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among 
his private friends, &c. — As Plautus and Seneca are 
accounted the best for comedy and tragedy among 
the Latines, so Shakespeare among the English is 
the most excellent in both kinds for the stage ; for 
comedy, witnes his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors, 
his Love labors lost, his Love labours wonne, his 
Midsummers night dreame, and his Merchant of 
Venice ; for tragedy, his Richard the Second, Richard 
the Third, Henry the Fourth, King John, Titus An- 
dronicus and his Romeo and Juliet.' This list of 
pieces is probably complete up to the date of writing, 
though the circumstance that the number of extant 
plays in tragedy is reported as exactly the same as of 
extant plays in comedy is not assuring. It is not 
likely that Shakespeare consciously attempted to 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 267 

keep the balance even. It will have been likewise 
noted that Jonson is mentioned as already, in tragedy, 
an author of reputation. But it may be possible, as 
some one has suggested, that Jonson was known, 
'among his private friends,' of whom Meres seems 
to have been one, before the acceptance of his work 
by the companies, as a writer of classic stage plays. 
The comedy of Shakespeare referred to by the title 
Loves Labour s Won may have been one of the many 
EHzabethan pieces that have perished, but probably 
exists under the name of AlVs Well that Ends Well. 
There is small reason for believing that any drama 
which Shakespeare had any material share in making 
has been permitted to disappear. 

After 1 599 Shakespeare was able to derive income 
from other sources than acting and writing plays. 
The Theatre was taken down, and from the materials, 
which were removed to Southwark, near London 
Bridge, the Globe Theatre was in part con- ciobe 
structed. The new playhouse was rather a Th^a'^e. 
large affair, accommodating it is inferred as many as 
two thousand patrons. Its name, The Globe, was 
derived from its sign — shops and like public places 
being designated not by street numbers but ' signs ' 
— of Atlas with the world upon his shoulders. 
Shakespeare and other actors were the lessees. 
What income per share was derived from the man- 
agement is not known, but it probably ranged from 
;^ioo to ^200 in money of the time. This year 
appears to have been also an active one in authorship ; 
Shakespeare seems to have produced Henry V and 



268 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Much Ado before its close. There is a tradition that 
Elizabeth, on account of a particular liking for the 
part of Falstaff in Henry IV, requested Shakespeare 
to make a play showing that character in love, 
Wives of and that Shakespeare complied, writing the 
Windsor, j^^^^^y y^-^^^ j^ fourtccn days. We have 

seen that Sir Thomas Lucy, who died in 1600, is 
probably satirised in this drama. Shakespeare almost 
certainly would not wait till the death of his former 
persecutor before pillorying him in a play. The cor- 
rect text of Romeo and Juliet was issued this year in a 
new quarto. 

In 1600 it is believed that Shakespeare brought 
out his Twelfth Night and As Yon Like It, which, 
with Much Ado, rank as his three best comedies. 
These pieces certainly, in point of dramatic and poetic 
excellence, belong together. In the rebellion of 1601 
Shakespeare's company was professionally implicated, 
having been hired to render a play that is supposed 
to have been RicJiard II. Shakespeare does not 
seem to have lost favour in consequence with the 
Queen, as his company is shown to have played 
before her Majesty at Richmond palace a few weeks 
later. In September of this year John Shakespeare 
died. During the winter, in a play called The Scourge 
of Simony, acted by the students in St. John's College, 
Cambridge, Shakespeare received recognition of a 
novel kind. Burbage and Kemp, the chief players 
of the day, are introduced as having come to Cam- 
bridge to instruct the students in acting. Kemp is 
made to remark to Burbage thus : ' Few of the uni- 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 269 

versity pen plaies well : they smell too much of that 
writer Ovid, and that writer Metamorphosis, ^^^ ^^ 
and talke too much of Proserpina and J up- tumefrom 
piter. Why, heres our fellow Shakespeare ^'''"'''"''^ 
puts them all downe, I, and Ben Jonson too. O that 
Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow ! he brought up Hor- 
ace giving the poets a pill, but our fellow Shakespeare 
hath given him a purge that made him beray his 
credit.' This play was printed five years later, under 
The Returncfrom Pernassiis as its first title. In May 
of the year following Shakespeare is recorded as the 
purchaser of a hundred and seven acres of land near 
Stratford, for which the payment of ^^320 was made. 
Shakespeare is unable to leave London to consum- 
mate the transfer, and the conveyance is 
sealed and deHvered to Gilbert Shakespeare 
as his proxy. Sometime in the spring of this year 
Hamlet was brought out at the Globe Theatre. 

In 1603, on the death of Elizabeth, and the acces- 
sion of James I, Shakespeare's company was at once 
licensed as the King's Players, Shakespeare ranking 
second in the list, with Burbage third. Hamlet was 
issued in the first quarto, clearly a pirated edition. 
It was followed in 1604 by the second quarto, in 
authorised text, ' enlarged to almost as much againe 
as it was, according to the true and perfect Shake- 
Coppie.' Other plays not more popular ^^fJ^V 
than this one, but in general estimation period. 
greater, followed in sublime succession. It is the 
heyday of Shakespeare's skill and power. Here 
belong somewhat unassignably by years Othello, 



2/0 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Macbeth, Afitony and Cleopatra, Troilus and Cressida, 
Coriolanus and King Lear, with Measure for Measure, 
Timon of Athens, and Pericles, Prince of Tyre. Any- 
one of these, save the last three, would have sufficed to 
make a dramatist immortal. Meantime changes were 
coming, or had come. In spite of heavy preoccupa- 
tions, Shakespeare is turning his thoughts toward 
Stratford. In 1605 he is purchaser of the tithes of 
Stratford, Old Stratford, Welcombe, and Bishopton, 
paying ^440 for the rights secured. While he is 
doing the hardest literary work of his life, his mind 
seems most engaged with business details, and the 
purchase of the tithes entailed no little trouble. In 
the summer of 1607 Shakespeare's first-born, Su- 
sanna, was married to John Hall, a physician of Strat- 
ford. In December of that year Edmund Shakespeare, 
the poet's brother, was buried from the Church of 
St. Saviour in South wark. He is known to have 
been an actor, presumably in his brother's company ; 
and the time of his burial, which was in the morning, 
would seem chosen that his fellow-actors might attend 
the services. On the 9th of September, 1608, Mary 
Arden, Shakespeare's mother, died. 

Shakespeare did not suffer in his dramatic rights 
alone from the cupidity of unprincipled publishers. 
Early in 1609 a little quarto, entitled SJiake-speares 
The Son- Sonucts neiicr before imprinted, was carried 
nets. through the press by Thomas Thorpe. This 

man had in some way secured a manuscript copy of 
Shakespeare's ' sugared sonnets among his private 
friends,' and, assuming that the author's dramatic 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 2/1 

prestige would sell the work, issued an edition of it. 
It does not appear that the venture was especially 
successful. In 1591 Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophcl 
and Stella had been published under similar circum- 
stances, and introduced a fashion of sonneteering that 
lasted fully half-a-dozen years. There seems no ques- 
tion that the sonnets in the book throughout are 
Shakespeare's, but it is pretty certain that they date 
almost wholly from the Venus and Lncrece period of 
his authorship. It is manifest, besides, that many of 
the sonnets have covert references to Southampton, 
as still the patron of their author. Nearly all of the 
poems, which are sentimental and literary, rather 
than utterances of genuine feeling, are amatory, fol- 
lowing the conventions of the time. Meres, enu- 
merating further in his Palladis Taniia, had spoken 
thus of the school : ' These are the most passionate 
among us to bewaile and bemoane the perplexities of 
Love, — Henrie Howard, earle of Surrey, Sir Thomas 
Wyat the elder, Sir Francis Brian, Sir PhiHp Sidney, 
Sir Walter Rawley, Sir Edward Dyer, Spencer, 
Daniel, Drayton, Shakespeare, Whetstone, Gas- 
coyne, Samuell Page, sometimes fellowe of Corpus 
Christi Colledge in Oxford, Churchyard, Bretton.' 
The fashion of Petrarch's tributes to Laura, as imi- 
tated in English first by Wyatt and Surrey, had 
been extended to masculine favourites, and with about 
as much subtlety and subjectivity as to the real or 
imaginary mistresses that they sung. 

The major part of the sonnets in this case deal with 
a man, for whom the author professes a fondness and 



2/2 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

devotion surpassing the love of women. Were it estab- 
lished that Shakespeare ever experienced such an affec- 
tion as is here affirmed for any man, we should have 
new matter by which to evaluate his nature. But it 
is impossible to sequestrate the subjective element. 
From the language of certain sonnets it has been 
inferred that the worshipped lover's name was Will, 
Whether there was ever any single person specifi- 
cally and consistently in the poet's mind cannot be 
known ; but if there was, and of the rank and culture 
that the sonnets imply, it is as good as demonstrable 
that he did not bear this name. As for the other 
chief figure, the dark lady, with whom the last 
twenty-eight sonnets are concerned, there are uncon- 
The dark vcntioual allusions and compliments of a 
lady, kind that argue a substantial basis of fact 

beneath the poetry. It is not unlikely that Shake- 
speare, on first entering the great world of wit and 
fashion, came under the spell of a brilliant but un- 
principled woman, connected, perhaps, with the court, 
or certainly with the highest social circles. There 
were few men in that age incapable of responding to 
the blandishments of such a social figure. Being 
himself handsome and fascinating, as we must 
assume, and of a temperament and spirit especially 
attractive to the sex that he knew so well, he could 
hardly have escaped the attentions of self-willed 
women. The chief marvel is, if there be much per- 
sonal history here, that Shakespeare should have 
imparted it so freely, and celebrated into notoriety, 
* among his private friends,' a woman that he genu- 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 2/3 

inely cared for. It is, indeed, quite likely that his 
friends would be also her friends, who might resent 
the frank and unsparing treatment accorded her. 
These sonnets do not read like poems of correction 
or reproof, intended for the lady's eye, or their exist- 
ence and later currency might be accounted for. 
They seem rather the spiritual diary of a man who 
records, for himself alone, the soundings of his heart 
and his progressive acquaintance with eternal law. 
It is possible that Shakespeare knew fully of the 
vogue that the 'amour' sonnets had reached abroad, 
and that he was really celebrating no other than some 
imaginary Hel^ne or Camille, without the name, in a 
thoroughly personal and characteristic vein. It is, 
however, probable that these sonnets are in some 
measure autobiographical. Those who wish to estab- 
lish Shakespeare in literary history as a man of 
stained character, must have the last word in this 
matter. It should not be forgotten here that human 
goodness is but relative, and that conduct is not in 
itself the final test of character. There are pure 
men and women who care nothing for purity as such, 
and there are men and women who keep the whole 
law, yet are not in alliance with it or with the pur- 
poses it serves. We are sure from the ^^^^^ 
works that Shakespeare has left us that he speare's 
loved purity and truth more than all things ^p"'"'^™- 
else. No man besides has so exalted goodness and 
worth, or manifested such faith in the fundamental 
instincts of humanity. The Sonnets, because of the 
insistent amatory burden of their sentiment, are not 

T 



274 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

agreeable reading in present times, and many people 
are ignorant of the strength and Keats-like luxuriance 
of the lines. 

It is estabhshed that in 1609 Shakespeare's com- 
pany came into possession of the Blackfriars Theatre, 
The Black ^^^ ^^^^ ^" ^^^ following year Shakespeare, 
friars Burbagc, and Hemmings played in it. This 

^^^'^^' playhouse was opened in 1597, and for some 
time drew patronage away from The Theatre and 
The Curtain because of the novelty of boy players. 
It seems that Shakespeare's company suffered con- 
siderable reduction in receipts, and may, as hinted in 
Hamlet (II. ii. 343-360) have been obHged to tour 
in the counties, to prevent disbanding. In 161 1, it 
is more than probable, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale, 
and TJie Tempest were brought out. Shakespeare's 
contract required him to furnish his company with 
two plays a year. As no plays seem to have been 
written after this date, it is presumed that his con- 
nection with the Globe Theatre and the King's players 
did not continue so long as twelve months after. The 
Hefiry VIII is believed to have been composed after 
this time, but only a part of it is Shakespeare's. That 
it was his purpose to withdraw at once to Stratford 
Shake- sccms Unlikely, since in March of 161 3 
iTo^ndon ^^ bought a house near Blackfriars. The 
house. purchase does not appear to have been 
made as an investment, since ;£6o of the £140 to 
be paid was left on mortgage. The building had been 
used as a shop in the lower story, and was probably 
wanted as a home. But if it was Shakespeare's pur- 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 2/5 

pose to bring his wife and daughter to London, and 
live with them here, he evidently soon changed his 
mind. In June of this year the Globe Theatre was 
burned, having caught fire during a performance of 
King Henry VIII, but in the rebuilding and reopening 
no reference to Shakespeare is met with. It seems 
clear that he must have withdrawn to Stratford. He 
is heard of here in connection with an attempt to fence 
in some part of the common lands within the borough. 
Entries concerning this, from November, 1614, to 
September, 161 5, in a diary kept by the town-clerk 
of Stratford, contain Shakespeare's name. 

On the 25th of January, 1616, the first draft of 
Shakespeare's will was prepared by Francis „. . 
Collins, a solicitor not of Stratford, but of speare's 
Warwick, Shakespeare being at this time, ^' " 
according to the opening sentence in the document, 
in perfect health. In February Judith Shakespeare 
was married to Thomas Quiney of Stratford. We 
find nothing after this save that Shakespeare died on 
the 23d of April, perhaps his birthday, after finishing 
his fifty-second year. There is a tradition that his 
disease was fever, and there is reason to believe that 
his death was preceded by a lingering sickness of this 
kind. The provisional draft of the will was never 
copied, but changed seemingly in haste by erasures 
and interlinear additions, January being corrected to 
March, but the day of the month standing unaltered 
as the twenty-fifth. To Susanna Hall is devised 
the bulk of the property, including New Place, the 
Henley Street ' messuages or tenementes with thap- 



2/6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

purtenaunces,' as also ' that messuage or tenemente 
with thappurtenaunces wherein one John Robinson 
dwelleth, scituat lyeing and being in the Blackfriers 
in London nere the Wardrobe.' His bequest to Ju- 
dith is ;^300, or, in modern values, $12,000. To seven 
friends, including his fellow-actors Hemmings, Bur- 
bage, and Condell, he leaves 26s. 8d. 'apece to buy 
them ringes.' In the most important interlinear 
entry Shakespeare adds, ' I gyve unto my wiefe my 
second best bed with the furniture.' This was prob- 
ably the bed on which she habitually slept, and the 
afterthought of assigning it to her as her own has 
„j^g been strangely construed as indicative, on 

second- the part of her husband, of an intentional 

best bed. g^jg^^_ ^j^g ^gg^ ^^ . gp^^g , ^^^^ ^-^j^ ^j^ 

the other furnishings of New Place, except the plate, 
go to Susanna Hall and her husband, who will re- 
move to New Place, and presumably care for their 
mother there. The transaction was not unlike what 
was done frequently in wills. Anne Shakespeare was 
then sixty years old, and probably incapable of much 
activity in affairs. From ill nutrition, unhygienic 
living, and other causes, men and women were in 
general as old at forty, in those times, as at sixty now. 
Anne Shakespeare, moreover, except in the Black- 
friars property, was entitled to dower, and one-third 
of Shakespeare's realty in and about Stratford would 
insure, for a plain woman, in any case, much more 
than a liberal support. Prefixed to the last signature 
of the will, which is subscribed three times, are the 
words ' By me,' the only ones believed to be extant. 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 2// 

except his own name, from the hand of Shakespeare. 
Two other authenticated signatures are preserved in 
documents connected with the transfer of the Black- 
friars property. 

Shakespeare, as the owner of the tithes of Strat- 
ford, was entitled to burial in the chancel of the parish 
church, and here his grave is shown to-day. The slab 
covering it bears the famous inscription, according to 
one tradition composed, according to another selected, 
by the poet himself : — 

GOOD FREND FOR lESVS SAKE FORBEARE, 
TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE. 
BLESE BE YE MAN YT SPARES THES STONES, 
AND CVRST BE HE YT MOVES MY BONES. 

The explanation of such an unworthy sentiment may 
lie in the fear, said to have been entertained by 
Shakespeare, lest his bones should be in The strat- 
later time removed to the charnel house. ^°^^ ^"^f- 
A few years after the burial, a life-size bust of the 
poet was cut in London, and placed on the wall near 
the grave. It is believed to have been made from 
a death mask, and probably preserves the main 
characteristics of the poet's face. The pose, how- 
ever, is aggressive and striking, and seems at war 
with everything that Shakespeare's presence could 
be imagined to suggest. On a tablet beneath the 
cushion is an inscription that somewhat redeems the 
rudely-cut lines, already quoted, upon the slab above 
the grave : — 



2^8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

IVDICIO PYLIVM, GENIO SOCRATEM, ARTE MARONEM, 
TERRA TEGIT, POPVLVS M^RET, OLYMPVS HABET 

STAY PASSENGER, WHY GOEST THOV BY SO FAST ? 
READ IF THOV CANST, WHOM ENVIOVS DEATH HATH 

PLAST, 
WITH IN THIS MONVMENT SHAKSPEARE : WITH WHOME, 
QVICK NATVRE DIDE : WHOSE NAME DOTH DECK YS 

TOMBE, 
FAR MORE, THEN COST : SIEH ALL YT HE HATH WRITT, 
LEAVES LIVING ART, BVT PAGE, TO SERVE HIS WITT. 

obiit anno doi l6l6 
aetatis 53 die 23 ap. 

The expense of this memorial, which was not 
small, is said to have been borne by his older daughter. 
That she was a favourite of her father is evident from 
the provisions of his will, of which she and her hus- 
band. Dr. Hall, were named executors. She must 
have inherited something of her father's mental 
superiority, or her marriage to a man of unusual in- 
telligence and cultivation could scarcely be explained. 
Her goodness also was conspicuous, — 

Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, 
Wise to Salvation was good Mistris Hall ; 
Something of Shakespere was in that, but this 
Wholy of Him with whom she's now in blisse, — 

if we are to trust the first lines of her epitaph. Both 
she and her husband are known to have been of 
Puritan sympathies. 

Although the Stratford bust is crude and inartistic, 
the work of a monument maker and not a statuary, 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 279 

it has served as our best means of knowing how- 
Shakespeare looked. It was at first coloured, after 
a fashion of the times, in order to represent the eyes, 
hair, complexion, and clothing as nearly as possible 
to the real. In 1793 the whole figure was painted 
white in imitation of marble. In 1861 this coat of 
paint was removed, and the original colouring restored, 
showing the hair and beard to have been auburn-hued, 
and the eyes, light hazel. Besides this bust nothing 
authentic was for a long time known to exist except 
the Droeshout Hkeness, made by Martin 

The Droes- 

Droeshout, and set on the title-page of the hout paint- 
Folio of 1623. This picture was praised '"s- 
by Jonson, and though mechanical and forced is be- 
lieved to exhibit approximately the proportion of 
Shakespeare's features. In 1892 the painting from 
which Droeshout probably made his plate was dis- 
covered in a suburb of London. While there are 
reasons for suspecting that the painting may have 
been made, near the beginning of the last century or 
earlier, from the engraving, it is the confident opinion 
of experts that the world has recovered a genuine por- 
trait of the author, painted from life, and at the date 
1609, which the picture bears. An uncle of Martin 
Droeshout, the engraver, and of the same name, is 
known to have emigrated to England from Brabant 
in 1608, and to have been a painter. Because of 
certain marks of the Flemish school, seen in the 
portrait, it has been supposed that this man must 
have been the artist. The engraving seems clearly 
a cramped and mechanical attempt to reproduce the 



280 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

painting. Of other portraits claimed to be likenesses 
of Shakespeare, there is no authentic study of the 
living model, and all are at variance with the 
Droeshout work. 

In 1623 Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare's widow, 
died, and was buried within the chancel of Stratford 
church. In the same year the First Folio, the earliest 
collection of Shakespeare's plays, was brought out 
under the editorship of Hemmings and Condell, two 
of the actor friends named in his will. In 1632, 1663, 
and 1685 the Second, the Third, and the Fourth Foho 
appeared respectively. Of Shakespeare's daughters, 
Susanna lived till 1649, and Judith till 1662. None of 
Judith's children survived her. Elizabeth, daughter 
of Susanna, was the only grandchild of Shakespeare 
that reached maturity. She was twice married, but 
brought her grandfather, who is reported to have been 
very fond of her, no inheritors of his fame. She died 
childless in 1670. 

It seems remarkable that Shakespeare, though 
indubitably a great genius, should have shown from 
The sane- ^^st to last uo tracc of the erratic and un- 
ness of practical temper supposed to belong to all 
speare's i^cn of bis sort. Various financial dealings, 
'"''^'^- some of them unmentioned in this sketch, 

show him to have been anchored beyond the dream- 
side of existence, and to have divined business chances 
as readily and unerringly as the proper construction 
of a play. He seems to have been singularly free 
from illicit attachments, to which genius is especially 
liable. He chafed sometimes, if we may believe his 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 28 1 

one hundred and eleventh sonnet, at his vocation of a 
player. He was undoubtedly as upright and pure as 
Sir Philip Sidney, a man admittedly much better than 
his generation. It is clear that he grew away from his 
wife, and perhaps found little pleasure in the society 
of his younger daughter. But there was no educa- 
tion for women in those days ; the plodding wit could 
not quicken itself by learning. He was kindly and 
fond of companions. It would seem that he was no 
respecter of persons ; his plays show him inclined 
to satirise the pretensions of rank. The traditions 
concerning Shakespeare's conviviality and carousing 
do not at their worst prove him different from the 
first men of his day. Sixteenth-century tastes and 
morals were low at best, and present ideals that 
temperance reforms have brought are not a hundred 
years old as yet. There is much that is significant 
in Shakespeare's life to those who have found the 
man in his work. To others the facts concerning 
his career will seem but mutilated and empty annals. 
There is much that may be discerned in his biography, 
beyond what is attempted here, by the complete 
student of his mind and work. 

Whether the man who wrote the plays called 
Shakespeare's was the Shakespeare whose career 
we have been following, is still doubted by some in- 
genious and patient readers. It would seem, accord- 
ing to the opinion of these good people, that the 
burden of proof has shifted, and that those who do 
not accept the theory that Bacon wrote the plays 
must explain how Shakespeare, without knowledge 



282 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

or education, could have produced them. To 
assume that William Shakespeare, of Stratford- 
upon-Avon, could not have written the plays that 
The Bacon bear his name, is to predicate stricter limita- 
question. tious of gcnius in this case than are admitted 
in other departments of the world's work. Shake- 
speare's task in making the English drama was not 
greater than Giotto's in making the art of south- 
ern Europe, and his discipline was not less ample. 
Sophocles produced the best dramas of classic time 
without other preparation than reading the plays 
that .^schylus wrote. Shakespeare had only the 
works of Greene and Peele and Lyly as exemplars, 
but he saw how their weakness could be made 
strength. This seeing, this vision, is all that distin- 
guishes genius from plodding minds. Schools do 
not produce vision ; they dispense the products of it. 
We must not set bounds to the seer's seeing. We 
cannot presume to know the degree to which the 
faith of an Hermione, the integrity of a Juliet, or 
the beauty of an Arthur or a Mamillius reveal them- 
selves in the soul of Shakespeare. With this power 
of seeing, Mozart composes minuets and performs 
them at sight when he is but four years old. The 
present writer once knew of an ignorant Irish 
woman, unable to read or write, who solved abstruse 
mathematical problems intuitively. There are num- 
berless instances, among the ranks of the uneducated, 
of feats similar; and it is by no means clear that 
Shakespeare's achievements really surpass these ac- 
cepted marvels. 



SHAKESPEARE THE MAN 283 

On the other hand, if Bacon or some other man of 
learning wrote the poems and plays called Shake- 
speare's, we should expect to find many things not 
present, and not to find many things that are pres- 
ent, in his works. If the author of Cymbeline had 
been expertly trained in Latin quantities, could he 
have made the stress in Posthumus fall upon the 
second syllable? If he knew classic instances and 
parallels, would he not have used them ? But the 
man who wrote the works called Shakespeare's was 
plainly shut off from the world of books, except 
Holinshed, Plutarch, and Montaigne, and what the 
pupil of Stratford Free School might be expected to 
have reached an acquaintance with. The only classi- 
cal learning exhibited in the plays of Shakespeare is 
embodied in quotations from the Accidence, Sententice 
Piierilcs, Lily's Latin Grammar and the Eclogues of 
Mantuanus, which were used in the schools of the 
day. It is hardly likely that a man who had read 
Latin at Cambridge would quote a passage from Ter- 
ence, as the author of The Taming of the Shrew does 
certainly, in the incorrect form that appears in Lily's 
Grammar. The person who did that had pretty 
certainly never seen Terence in the standard text. 
There are besides many anachronisms and uncon- 
sidered references, such as making Galen to have 
lived before the times of Coriolanus, and putting 
allusions to the bulls of Bashan into the mouth of 
Antony, which are inconsistent with good scholar- 
ship and a well-trained mind. Bacon could have had 
no motive to conceal his reading. If Bacon wrote 



284 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

under the disguise of Shakespeare's name, the ex- 
pedient would have succeeded no less completely 
than it has succeeded, had the plays been as full of 
learning as Ben Jonson's. 

So we are forced back to the position of demand- 
ing, if the Bacon question must still be argued, that 
the advocates of the theory accept fully the burden 
of proof. We are all anxious to know the truth, and 
have no least willingness to crown a mistaken master. 
When Bacon shall have been proved the author of 
Cymbeline, and The Winter's Tale, and Romeo and 
Juliet, and of Macbeth, all lovers of the plays before 
called Shakespeare's will rejoice to right a wrong, 
and give unwilling merit its full due. 



VII 

GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 

Ben Jonson, in his Timber or Discoveries Made upon 
Men and Matter^ remarks concerning Shakespeare 
thus : ' I remember, the players have often mentioned 
it as an honour to Shakespeare that, in his writing, 
whatsoever he penn'd, hee never blotted out line. 
My answer hath beene, would he had blotted a thou- 
sand. . . . His wit was in his owne power ; — would 
the rule of it had beene so too ! Many times hee fell 
into those things, could not escaj^e laughter; as when 
hee said in the person of Caesar, one speaking to 
him, — Ccesar tJiou dost 7ne wrong; hee re- Shake- 
plyed, — CcEsar did never wrong but with just the^dassU 
cause ; and such like ; which were ridicu- cists, 
lous.' Of course there is no such reading in the 
present text of Julius Ccesar, and probably was not 
when Jonson wrote. The Folio of 1623, the first col- 
lected edition of Shakespeare's dramas, contains the 
only extant form of the piece, and must have been 
issued before that time. Jonson aided in the publi- 
cation of the Foho, and should have known how the 
lines (III. i. 47, 48) referred to ran. We fancy that 
we catch a note of envy in his words. It is likely 
enough that Shakespeare knew little of the art of 
polishing, and perhaps but partially understood the 

28s 



286 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

need. It seems certain that he wrote with remarkable 
fluency, being never bothered for a word. Jonson's 
utterance voices the criticism of the classicists, who 
find everywhere too great latitude and liberty of dic- 
tion. If he could have written like Jonson himself, 
he would not have pleased his critics, for there were 
no classical standards as yet. No man has ever been 
great enough — save Dante — to shape the taste of a 
whole people. Shakespeare's plays were profounder 
than any others, and were cast in loftier language, yet 
were easier to read. His success, like Bunyan's, came 
from the commoner sort of folk. No writer was 
ever more available to thoughtful, discerning minds, 
whether educated or not, than he. 

It is often remarked, as derogatory to Shakespeare, 
that he borrowed his plots, and was therefore un- 
Shake- original. To be original is to see to the 
borrowed bottom of things ; it is not merely to com- 
piots. pass unique sayings. Shakespeare surely 

saw first principles as profoundly as any thinker who 
has left record of himself. The seer who under- 
stands all social phenomena, does not need to create 
the data or circumstances that he would explain. 
The man who knows life, will not manufacture texts 
by which to preach its lessons. The greater includes 
the less. Shakespeare was certainly capable of creat- 
ing a new plot for every play. Being a busy man, 
and writing, as he supposed, for his own generation, 
and not for posterity, he was willing to minimise his 
labour. 

Many attempts have been made to divide the 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 287 

works of Shakespeare into definite and well-marked 
groups, answering to specific periods of Divisions 
development, but with only partial success, oithepiays. 
By all such classifications, Romeo andjtilict must be 
parted too far from Cyvibcline. The division of 
the Folio into comedies, histories, and tragedies is 
serviceable, but not final, since the histories are in 
strictness either tragical or comedial in their nature. 
From interior reasons it is well to consider Shake- 
speare's work provisionally under the heads of hicidoit 
Plays, Personal Plays, and Moral Plays. These di- 
visions are not chronological, and do not at all fol- 
low the course of development in the author's mind. 
Among Incident Plays, in which incidents are the 
chief dramatic basis of treatment, are to be reckoned 
Titus Androniciis, Comedy of Errors, Mids7iinmer 
NigJifs Dream, and TJie Tempest. In the second 
group belong typically Richard III, Henry V, and in- 
deed most of the so-called histories, with Jllerchant of 
Venice, Tzvelfth Niglit, Mncli Ado, and Cymbeline. In 
each of these dramas the interest centres in some cer- 
tain personality, as Shy lock, Viola, Imogen, and 
this personality is presented and treated for its own 
sake. Under Moral Plays are to be classed Macbeth, 
Coriolanus, Romeo and Juliet, Antony and Cleopatra, 
Othello, and King Lear. In these character is not 
treated, as in Richard III, chiefly and finally for its 
own sake. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth and King 
Lear are portrayed to us, not for what they are, but 
for what can be wrought from their potencies and 
postulates of character. 



288 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

It is difficult to suggest a better division for the 
practical student, at least in his earlier studies of 
Twoprinci- Shakcspearc's plays. Much labour has been 
pal periods, spent in showing that this author passed 
through several stages of technical improvement in 
his blank verse and other details of form. All the 
results are interesting, as proving the soundness and 
sufficiency of Shakespeare's mind, but are not par- 
ticularly satisfying to those still seeking acquaintance 
and fellowship with that mind. There can be no 
question that Shakespeare grew in facility and power 
of utterance. There is no evidence that he grew in 
wisdom, or in knowledge of human nature, or indeed 
in art. It is well to realise that in plays of a certain 
early period he is much conditioned in his paragraphs 
by the form, and that his characters tend to talk in 
a constant dialect which is clearly the author's and 
not their own. Later, after a certain point, the speech 
of the characters is largely differentiated, and such 
mastery is reached over metre and other elements of 
form as to enhance by them rather than reduce the 
sum of power. We may recognise generically a stage 
of preparation and a period of maturity and strength. 
Twelfth Night and The Merchajit of Venice mark this 
zenith of technique in the comedies ; Hamlet marks 
it in the tragedies. To go further than this is to 
go outside the evident and universal characteristics 
of Shakespeare's work. How valueless chronologic 
grounds have proved in the classification is seen 
from the circumstance that Julius CcBsar is held to 
have been produced next to Hamlet, yet does not 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 289 

belong in the same rank of development with that 
play. 

It has been the opinion of some excellent scholars 
that Shakespeare's work followed closely certain 
attitudes and preoccupations of his mind ; ^j^^ , 
that at one time he was depressed and pessi- simistic" 
mistic, probably from wrongs ; and that the ^ ^^^' 
great tragedies, as Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, Lear, 
dating from this period, are shadowed with his doubt 
and weighted with his suffering. It would be helpful 
if we could penetrate Shakespeare's reserve to the 
extent of finding with certainty any personal mood or 
weakness mingled with his work. But it seems impos- 
sible to be sure of any such subjectivity. It is true 
that his last three plays, Cymbelijie, Winter's Tale, and 
The Tempest, are optimistic ; but it is not TroUus 
safe to assume that Othello or MacbetJi ^^'^^ ^'^p"^," 
would have ended comedially if written like by itself, 
them in the last months of his authorship. One play, 
the Troibis and Cressida, laid in times of degeneracy, 
when even a Hector's judgment is warped by the 
blandishments of a Helen, is wanting in noble ele- 
ments, and stands by itself. There is the same spirit 
in the earlier dramas as in the latest ; Viola is treated 
as tenderly as Imogen. In the heavy tragedies of 
the so-called pessimistic period we can discern the 
same governing faith and compelling optimism, and 
the same redeeming or redeemed use of woman's 
power as we have been contemplating in Romeo and 
Juliet and The Winter's Tale, or may find in every 
other stage of the poet's work, and in scarcely less 



290 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

degree. Hamlet and King Lear will perhaps yield 
proof most easily. 

The notion that Hamlet lacked energy and deci- 
sion of character has been held by many critics, but 
Hamlet's it would sccm with too great deference to 
scruples. ^]^g authority of first expounders. Of course 
the revenge called for by the Ghost, if carried out 
summarily, would make Hamlet King of Denmark. 
Hamlet, from failing to remember or understand the 
terms of his commission, ' Howsoever thou pursuest 
this act, taint not thy mind,' apparently believes him- 
self required to strike down the King immediately on 
sight. The intent of his father's words is plain ; they 
give him the largest liberty as to place and time, and 
forbid expressly that he incur the censure of his con- 
science or his self-respect. To escape the wounded 
name of having killed his uncle to gain the throne, 
as all the world, in default of absolute evidence con- 
cerning his father's death, will hold him responsible 
for doing, he thinks (HI. i. 56-88) of suicide. He 
will run the King through with his rapier, then 
destroy himself. Since his father's demand for ven- 
geance, which was a royal, not a domestic or a per- 
sonal, requisition, he has been in constant practice 
(V. ii. 221) with his sword. He has set honestly 
about the business of cleansing the throne of Den- 
mark. He recognised (I. v. 189, 190) at the outset the 
national character of his commission, — 

The time is out of joint. O cursed spite. 
That ever I was born to set it right ! 

He realises now that it will cost him either his honour 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS • 29 1 

or his life. He naturally hesitates in the face of 
such a fate ; he loves the life that he feels he cannot 
save. He delays the moment, and believes that he 
may fairly require further proof of his uncle's guilt. 
His scheme succeeds ; the King stops the play that 
has caught his conscience. Hamlet, in his excitement, 
imagines that he may yet show the King a murderer 
to Denmark. He is tempted to despatch the culprit 
by striking him, while praying, through the back ; but 
the unnational, unprincely quahty of the vengeance 
gives him pause. His mother summons him, appar- 
ently to scold him, to her closet. He will go straight- 
way and inflict on her the bloodless punishment due, 
as he assumes, for complicity in his father's murder. 

Hitherto the Queen has been on her husband's 
side. So far as the audience is concerned, it has 
despised her. The author will not send Hamlet to 
his death, in spite of his mother's sin, without restor- 
ing her love to him and his to her. Further- The Queen 
more, Shakespeare will bring her to our o^r^s^n^.'" 
sympathies, and invest her with unsuspected pathies. 
strength ; he will turn her against her husband, and 
add immeasurable pathos to the close by her enthu- 
siasm and devotion to her son. He will not wind up 
the play without making her fill, by repudiating her 
former self, the place of the woman she should have 
been. This insistent need of a typic, genuine woman- 
hood, even in a play founded on lust and murder, is 
of the essence of the optimism that we have affirmed 
of Shakespeare. 

Indeed, the attempt to redeem Gertrude to herself 



292 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

and to the play, in the face of what would seem 
insuperable artistic difficulties, is indicative of the 
degree of Shakespeare's wish to mitigate the sin and 
wrong with which he was forced, for plot reasons, to 
begin the piece. Nowhere else in this work, perhaps 
nowhere else in the other dramas, does he accomplish 
a larger feat. It would take years, in real life, to 
bring about the changes that are effected here within 
the compass of two hundred lines. The business 
opens summarily (III. iv) after seven lines of con- 
nection with the preceding scene. * Now, mother, 
what's the matter,' says the summoned visitor, in a 
How boyish, familiar, unprincely salutation. It is 

Shake- some time, we may be sure, since Hamlet 

speare re- , , , , , . , , 

deems the has been asked to come to his mothers 
Queen. closet. * Hamlet, thou hast thy father 
much offended,' is the significant reply. This 
tainted mother will essay to school her son, his 
father's avenger. ' Mother, you have my father 
much offended.' The retort makes her wince : does 
Hamlet know ? But no matter ; there is but one 
thing to be done. She must assume a virtue, if she 
have it not. ' Come, come, you answer with an idle 
tongue.' These words should make him reahse his 
impertinence. But Hamlet takes issue ; he has 
indeed come with no other purpose than to take 
issue. So he answers impetuously, echoing by con- 
traries, ' Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.' 
The Queen's natural rejoinder is surprise, injured 
innocence, at that word * wicked,' — ' Why, kow 
flow, Hamlet, have you forgot me ? ' ' No, by the 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 293 

rood, not so. You are the Queen, your kusbaitd's 
brother s ivifc, and — would it were not so — you 
are my motJier.' Thus far our sympathies are with 
Hamlet. It is time that these things were said to 
the Queen by somebody, and we care not if they are 
said to her by her son. 

Here the first integral division of the scene closes. 
The Queen is bound, of course, to make a show of 
indignation; she starts forth vaguely, per- ^j^^^g 
haps with the thought of summoning the division of 
King. 'Nay, then, I'll set those to you ^^^ ^'=^"«- 
that can speak.' Hamlet now takes his mother by 
the shoulders, and thrusts her into a chair. ' Come, 
come, and sit you down ; you shall not budge ; you 
go not until I set you up a glass where you may see 
the inmost part of you.' Very natural is it that this 
woman should recoil from such a programme. Her 
* Help, ho,' is echoed from behind the arras by 
Polonius, whom Hamlet, hoping it is the King, 
strikes down. 

Here ends the second part of this strange scene. 
Were we present, we should exclaim against this vio- 
lence of Hamlet towards his mother. Then -pj^g begin- 
we should be immeasurably awed by the ningofour 
spectacle of the dead body lying at the ^ ^"^' 
bottom of the arras. Death is the great reformer of 
prejudice; and now, in the sight of Polonius slain, 
we find that we have charity not only for that man's 
weakness, but also for the Queen's. One death has 
made amends, in some degree, not for him merely, 
but for the twain together. This is helped, moreover, 



294 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

by the discovery, flashed upon us at this astounding 
moment, through the Queen's surprise at the charge 
of ' kilHng a king,' that she was not privy to her 
husband's murder. With this beginning, Hamlet 
goes on to enforce a sort of spiritual penance, not 
without great cost to himself as our hero, for his 
mother. As she stands aghast, wringing her hands 
in anguish, Hamlet again forces her to sit, affirming 
that he will wring her heart. Plainly, Shakespeare's 
hand is heavy upon his hero. For the sake of bring- 
ing back Hamlet to his mother, who has lost him ; for 
the sake of having the mother minister to the son in 
love and sympathy at the end of the play; for the 
sake besides of bringing an erring woman back to 
such relations with society as will enable her love and 
sacrifice for her son to have influence with us, Shake- 
speare will make the son harsh and brutal to his 
mother here. At Hamlet's first words the Queen 
retreats again behind the prerogative of her sex, — 
' What have / done, that thou darest wag thy tongue 
in noise so rude against me.''' His answer is as near 
to the suggestion of her guilt as he dare go, or as the 
author can artistically permit : — 

Such an act 
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, 
Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love 
And sets a blister there, makes marriage vows 
As false as dicers' oaths. 

The Queen refuses to admit that she understands this 
language. ' Ay me,' she says, — 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 295 

What act 
That roars so loud and thunders in the index ? 

It were indeed unseemly that a royal mother — this 
royal mother, who is to be restored to the love and 
devotion of her son — should go in definiteness much 
beyond. Hamlet is made to refrain from answering 
her question. The author turns him aside, in the 
declamation beginning, we shall remember, — 

Look here, upon this picture, and on this, 
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers, — 

into a tirade against her present husband, not alto- 
gether relevant to the indictme*nt which Hamlet has 
been pressing. At its close the Queen cries out : — 

O Hamlet, speak no more ! 
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul. 
And there I see such black and grained spots 
As will not leave their tinct. 

Here ends the third division, the third stage, in this 
closet interview. Our feelings of dislike and revul- 
sion have changed to surprise, and something like 
concern, as we see the marks of contrition in the face 
of the Queen, and hear her words of confession to 
her son. Yet it is only to us and for our sake dra- 
matically that she admits the consciousness of wrong. 
We begin to realise what the task is which Shake- 
speare has here set himself. If this were life, we 
should be content to part company here and thus 
with the Queen, to wish her no evil, and to x^e stage 
forget her existence. But this is not the end, of P'^y- 
nor even yet the middle of the scene ; there are still 



296 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

large changes to be wrought within our sympathies. 
The means first used is pity. Hamlet is made to go 
on scurrilously, beyond all reason, first by implica- 
tion against her who sits aghast and trembling, — 

Nay, but to live . . 
Stewed in corruption, — 

to which the Queen can only cry out, breaking in 
upon his violence : — 

Oh, speak to me no more ! 
These words like daggers enter in my ears. 
No more, sweet Hamlet. 

This has indeed gone too far. Will he drive her 
crazy .■' She is no longer at war with conscience, is 
no longer indignant at the voice that is caUing her to 
account. But he has put himself, as the instrument 
of her penitence, wholly in the wrong, and now essays 
to punish her. All her pleading, even with her hands 
stopping her ears, is of none effect. Were this scene 
actual, we should interfere for her, we should plead 
in her behalf with her against her persecutor. Help- 
less as she, we are forced to listen as Hamlet raves 
on against the King : — 

A murtherer and a villain ; 
A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe 
Of your precedent lord ; a vice of kings ; 
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, — 
A king of shreds and patches. 

The fourth stage in the transactions of the scene 
The fourth begins at this point. The wrong done by the 
stage. Queen to herself she feels and has acknow- 

ledged. The wrong done to her dead husband re- 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 297 

mains paramount in our consciousness. How can 
that be taken from our thought, from the associations 
of her past ? The Ghost is brought in to answer. 
Hamlet, unpersuaded as to his father's will, asks in 
dismay whether he be not come to chide his tardy- 
son, that lets go by the important acting of his dread 
command. The Ghost makes but a perfunctory and 
evasive answer, — ' Do not forget,' — as if Hamlet, 
whose soul is full of the obligation to revenge, whose 
days and nights have been chafed and fevered at the 
delay, at whose feet lies even now the dead body of 
Polonius, slain because mistaken for the King, could 
have forgotten. Then the real concern of this 
shadowy visitant, which he conceals for obvious rea- 
sons from his son, is betrayed. He has come, from 
old love of the Queen, to stop her punishment. He 
will not reveal himself to Jier; remorse might destroy 
her life. He would save her all further suffering, if 
he may, even of the thorns that prick and sting her 
in her bosom. With majestic tenderness he turns 
Hamlet's eyes to the spectacle that they have too 
little regarded hitherto. ' Look, amazement (distrac- 
tion) on thy mother sits. Take her part against her 
other self, which condemns her for her sin. Her 
imagination has been too much wrought upon al- 
ready. Speak to her, as thou shouldst, in kindness 
and sympathy.' There can be no mistaking the 
spirit or the purpose of this rebuke ; Hamlet should 
have remembered that he is forbidden (I. v. 85, 86) 
to contrive against his mother aught. At the first 
apparition of the Ghost, in the first act, Hamlet showed 



298 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

little fear. His present fright seems to mark how 
deeply he feels that he is in the wrong. 

When an injured husband forgives, the rest of the 

world drops the matter. So we here and now drop 

the cause of the elder Hamlet, as against 

The 

Ghost's for- Gertrude, from our thought. Moreover, the 
giveness. yoice of love and forgiveness that we have 
heard is a voice from the other world, speaking with 
other than the authority of men. The Ghost tarries 
to make sure that Hamlet does 'speak' to her, 
indeed, but not in the former way, and look upon her, 
not as an avenger, but a reconciled son. Satisfied 
that his stern rebuke is heeded, that there will be no 
more harsh words, he goes his way. At the moment 
when the Queen recovers her self-possession, finding 
Hamlet as she thinks distracted, she is restored to her 
former self, redeemed, and she carries the audience 
and the reader with her. 

Now comes the next step in the plan. What of 
the future of the Queen ? Shall she live still with 
The fifth th^ paramour who killed Hamlet's father.? 
step. Were she to presume this, or seem to pre- 

sume it, the presumption would be fatal to the pur- 
pose that Shakespeare has thus far attempted. Of 
course, under all the circumstances, since Gertrude 
cannot know of the vengeance awaiting Claudius, 
she must continue to be Queen of Denmark, and 
wife to Hamlet's uncle. But how shall the author 
make us see this and realise it in such a way that, 
from this time, we shall be no more scandalised at 
the thought. To have Hamlet discuss the question, 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 299 

and affirm to his mother that it were right and well 
so to do, might be Ben Jonson, or Otway, or Colley 
Gibber, but it would not be Shakespeare. To him 
there is apparently but one way, though he be again 
compelled to levy injuriously upon his hero. Hamlet 
is made, sentimentally and absurdly, to urge upon his 
mother the very opposite course : advice which he 
does not seem to remember afterwards, and advice 
which he surely did not mean. He knew that his 
mother could not cease to be wife to the King even 
if she would, and that her contrition is not sufficient 
to prompt her immuring herself behind convent walls, 
even if she could. The situation is clear to us, and 
its effect on us complete, when we hear Hamlet bid 
his mother ' go not to his uncle's bed.' 

The author is ready for another step. The mother 
and her son are restored to each other. Her feeUng 
toward him and his feeling toward her The Queen 
are such as have not been since he came ^L^'f," 

with Ham- 
back from Wittenberg. What shall be their let. 

relations hereafter .-' Shall she stand with the King, 

as hitherto, against her son, or against the King and 

on Hamlet's side .-* With her woman's intuition she 

now knows that Hamlet the elder has been murdered, 

and that Hamlet the younger cannot make peace 

with the King. Moreover, there can be no pathos at 

the close of the play, if Hamlet have not his mother's 

love entire and fully. But how are we to know of 

this alliance apart from what we see hereafter .-' 

Hamlet in playful irony bids his mother let the 

King coax from her his secret, namely, that he is 



300 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

essentially not in madness, but mad in craft. Her 
answer is unequivocal, the most motherly and unaf- 
fected thing she has said thus far in the play : — 

Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, 
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe 
What thou hast said to me. 

There is yet another integral part of the scene to 
be developed. Hamlet believes again in his mother; 
Proof of the instincts to confide in her as his best 
Hamiefs friend possess him again just as in youth 
trust in the ^^^ boyhood, when he told her his ills, his 
Queen. hopcs, his "projccts. He is now made to 
give proof of his new and perfect trust. He is in 
possession of the King's secrets. The young nobility, 
or some of them, are apparently in league for his 
defence. Through some agency of theirs the know- 
ledge of the mandate, in the sealed letters, has been 
communicated to Hamlet. The purpose of the 
King he will, by the aid of friends, forestall ; for he 
is utterly powerless alone. The King manifestly does 
not dare touch Hamlet upon the soil of Denmark. 
Seemingly in fear of an uprising, he keeps his court 
still in Kronberg, or the Marienlist palace, on the 
island of Seeland, away from the capital. To with- 
hold from the King, at such a time, the least hint of 
his danger, is a supreme test of Gertrude's new loy- 
alty to her son. That Hamlet intrusts his mother 
with the knowledge that he can command the King's 
most secret counsels, is the strongest possible proof 
of his renewed devotion. With no fear lest his con- 
fidence shall be betrayed, with no further exhortation, 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 30 1 

this son, bidding his mother a famiHar and affection- 
ate * good night ' that brings back lively associations 
of earlier years, goes out from the scene. He has 
suffered some detriment as a hero, but that shall be 
repaired ; while, on the other hand, both he and the 
play have gained a mother. 

The Queen begins her new role strongly at the 
opening of the next scene. She puts on a profound 
sighing, and tells the vahant falsehoods that ^^^^ 
Hamlet is mad as the sea and wind, and is Queen's 
weeping because he has killed Polonius. "^^ ^ ^' 
The King turns her report to his advantage against 
Hamlet, at which she sulks, and breaks seemingly 
into tears. We can hardly believe that her grief is 
genuine, when we remember her small concern, at the 
end of the last scene, about his going. Hitherto she 
has never appeared, except in the closet scene, apart 
from her husband. She does not, except for the fenc- 
ing contest and at the burial, come in with him again. 
She shows anxiety at Ophelia's grave over Hamlet's 
naTve dealings with Laertes, and his forgetting to feign 
that he is mad. Divining that the King and Laertes 
are plotting mischief, in connection with the wager, 
she sends word privately to Hamlet that he use some 
gentle entertainment to Laertes, before they fall to 
play. Divining further, after the fencing begins, that 
the King's enthusiasm for Hamlet is ungenuine, and 
that it is not intended that he shall come out of the 
sport alive, she sends him her napkin for his brows, 
and drinks excitedly to his success, resisting the 
King's attempt to take the goblet from her. There 



302 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

is no other way to give him courage against his en- 
emy, so she carouses to his fortune and the King's 
confusion. She assists, and perhaps of purpose, 
Hamlet's punishment of her husband's crimes. 

The play has long been the most popular, in part 
because the most enigmatical, of all the dramas. 
There is no reason to suppose Shakespeare intended, 
in the title character, to propound a mystery. It is 
doubtful if any of the critics who have called Hamlet 
a dreamer, a palaverer, or a coward, would have been, 
possessing a like sense of honour, less slow to strike. 
They find themselves influenced most perhaps by 
Hamlet's soliloquy (IV. iv.) over the proposed cam- 
paign of Fortinbras in Poland. They find him going 
tractably away into indefinite exile, far from the 
chance of vengeance, yet breathing out all the while 
fresh threatenings and slaughter in his father's name. 
To have made a hero who, at his best of wisdom and 
endeavour, should resolve that ' from this time forth 
his thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth,' while he 
is actually expecting to be stayed at an impossible dis- 
tance from the object of his revenge, would have been 
to make game of the readers and spectators of Hmnlet 
for all time. But Hamlet, as we have seen, does not 
Hamlet cxpcct to be exiled indefinitely in England, 
^nfTn' perhaps not even to be landed there. In a 
action. few days he shall be back, within a rapier's 
length again of the King's body. When the ap- 
pointed moment comes, Hamlet is magnificent in 
action. Though the King is surrounded with his 
court and attendants, well armed, many of them cer- 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 303 

tainly loyal to himself, Hamlet awes them all into 
helplessness as he orders the doors locked, stabs the 
King through with the envenomed blade, and forces 
him to drink off the poisoned wine. It is difficult to 
see how the objectors could have made the hero of 
this play behave, under the circumstances of the plot, 
much better than Shakespeare has ordained the course 
of the Hamlet that we find. Infinitely perplexed as 
to the form and manner of his duty, he accepts his 
fate, when once the path is opened, with divine repose 
and strength. Literature shows nowhere a nobler 
protagonist of right and truth. 

Ki7ig Lear is generally considered as the greatest 
of Shakespeare's tragedies, at least in point of grim 
and titanic suffering. Here a spoiled and ,,. 

° King Lear. 

wilful ruler, who has rioted in emotional 
excesses for fourscore years, is suddenly subjected 
to unspeakable wrongs and crosses, and what with 
humihation, and what with cold and hunger and 
neglect, loses his mind. But insanity thus caused is 
not incurable ; removal of the occasion brings back 
his reason. Thus the ultimate point of the drama 
involves regeneration, redemption of a violent nature 
by violence, and the play is largely given to the ap- 
plication and administering of the remedial forces. 
When he can no longer hold his kingdom, or take a 
city, he learns how to rule his spirit, and is really 
ready at last to live. 

It will be perhaps most helpful to contemplate the 
play as divided into these two parts : the evolution 
and operation of Lear's punishments ; the moral con- 



304 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

valescence of his mind. The origin and develop- 
Thetwo rnent of the disease Shakespeare takes for 
divisions of granted. The first great shock comes to Lear 
IS p ay. f j-om the revolt of Cordelia, in the opening 
scene. There have been three daughters in this king's 
household ; there is but one now, and the mother has 
for some time been dead. Goneril, the eldest, a fleshly 
and avaricious creature, big of bone and masculine in 
fibre, is now outside the family with a husband, — 
as it would seem of her own securing, — the Duke of 
Albany. Regan, also wedded to a subject, has left 
her father's home for the Earl of Cornwall's castle ; 
she, as we cannot doubt, much of her mother's mould, 
small of stature, refined and womanly, and nearer to 
her father's heart. CordeHa and her father have 
made a home together, and for some years perhaps 
it has been his will to keep this daughter, his last and 
least, as he calls her, a petite creature, weaker in 
presence and more lovable, immeasurably more lova- 
ble than Regan, to himself. When she shall wed, it 
is determined that her husband shall be at least a 
prince, and two suitors of this rank have long made 
their amorous sojourn at the court, waiting the father's 
pleasure. At length King Lear, perhaps awakening 
to the injustice of keeping her unmarried to cheer his 
fireside, proposes to endow her with the choicest of 
his lands, part the residue between her sisters, and 
withdraw from the palace that would be desolate 
without her. Goneril and Regan, realising that 
neither is their father's favourite, scheme to secure as 
large a portion as they each can of the dismembered 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 305 

kingdom. Blind to the jeopardy of a divided sov- 
ereignty, and anxious as it would seem but to have 
his old ears tickled with outrageous flattery, Lear 
plans to go out in a blaze of glory, and to exalt Cor- 
delia with such a gift as king's hands never gave 
before. Perhaps he has thought, by the richness of 
her dowry, in itself a kingdom, to keep her prince 
with her in Britain, and so spend his days still with 
her. 

So the first of his calamities comes to King Lear, 
much as if another drama of Job were to be enacted, 
in the first scene. It is a spectacular, yet a -yhe first 
domestic, situation. There are no courtiers calamity, 
called to be witnesses save Kent and Gloster, with 
Gloster's son, which last-named person, according to 
the Folio, remains, and reads, perhaps, in the strange 
procedures, the chance of a traitorous career. Before 
the King, now entering, is borne the coronet that is 
to rest on Cordelia's brows, as the earnest of her dowry. 
The King takes the throne and calls immediately for 
a map of Britain. He knows what affection each of 
his daughters bears him, yet he bids for protestations, 
feigning, though the portion of each is predetermined, 
that he will match his giving with their saying. 
Goneril goes soberly though the farce of formulat- 
ing her affection, making it as extreme as breath can 
phrase it, and giving the whole the momentum of her 
overplus of personality. Cordelia, who cannot be 
oratorical, feels that she is outclassed already, and 
resolves not to be heard in competition with such 
falseness. Regan, with seeming greater confidence 



306 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

in her father's favour, with greater womanliness, takes 
her sister's sermon for her text, — ' only she comes 
too short' The suspicion is aroused here, to be 
confirmed later, that Regan's part could scarcely have 
been played as we find it, had there been no rival to 
give her the cue. But now the proud father, having 
cleared the field, and settling himself for his joy, notthe 
joy alone of hearing Cordeha testify to her affection, 
but withal the joy of making her mistress of half his 
kingdom, asks her to do her part in this abdication 
ceremonial. There is silence. He bids her speak. 
With inexplicable and unfeeling deliberation she 
answers, * Nothing.' Lear cannot at first believe 
his ears. He makes inquiry if she means unfihally 
and wilfully to disappoint him, and she dares, stand- 
ing in all her helplessness before him to say, ' Ay.' 
It is the bitterest moment in this father's life. But 
there is no help for it. This defiance must be 
'punished, and the thunderbolts of wrath fall upon 
her head. 

The discipline of adversity is now administered, 
with all of Shakespeare's terrible dramatic condensa- 
Gonerii's ^^ou, to the ruined King. Even before the 
ambition, first sccuc closes, Goncril bespeaks Regan's 
cooperation in her father's ruin. Does she think to 
crowd out Regan and her weakling husband, and so 
make herself sole heir .-' She has inherited all the 
force of her father's will, and joins withal such con- 
sciencelessness and cruelty as make her monstrous 
beyond example among Shakespeare's women. She 
knows that her father is tyrannical, and can be driven 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 307 

easily to exasperation. She means to goad him to 
leave her, and she will control her sister's sympathies 
toward him. So within a fortnight comes the order 
to put on weary neghgence toward the King and all 
his followers. The result is that Lear falls in a rage, 
orders out his horses only just stalled for their fodder 
after hunting, and sets out for Gloster without touch- 
ing the dinner that he was demanding to have imme- 
diately served. Goneril despatches a letter to Gloster, 
to prevent Regan from receiving her father there. 

Lear rides all night on the way to Gloster town, 
only to find Regan and her husband gone, of purpose, 
to Gloster castle. Following also thither, he discovers 
Kent whistling and singing in the stocks, on the 
castle esplanade. Lear's wrath has cooled overnight ; 
but, at this insult to himself through his servant, it 
blazes out again. He feels the madness coming ; how 
is he to endure such insolence } Cornwall and Regan 
at last appear, and at a covert signal, probably from the 
former, Kent is set at liberty. But the half-famished 
father is not asked within. Little by Httle Regan's 
and Cornwall's courage comes. Regan tells her 
father that he is old, and insignificant, begs him to go 
back to her sister and ask forgiveness. Lear cannot 
take this seriously, and Regan cannot find the words 
to exasperate her father as Goneril's language did. 

Ask her forgiveness ? 
Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 
' Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. 
Age is unnecessary. On my knees I beg 
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.' 



308 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

We should have expected another curse as terrible 
as the one pronounced, just before leaving the Duke 
Regan a of Albany's palace, upon Goneril. But 
Lad" Mac- ^^^^ sccms to feel that this is the one prop 
beth. now left ; the self-control that keeps back 

denunciation here shows that there is chance of cure. 
Goneril now arrives, and at sight of her Lear loses 
all mastery over himself. He feels the madness 
coming, and pleads with Goneril to save him. Hunger 
and exhaustion urge him, and he consents even to go 
back with her. But Goneril will not have it so, and 
by denying him his knights makes him break out in 
tears, and turn his steps away toward the barren and 
houseless moor. Cornwall proposes that they with- 
draw within the castle. Regan, like a Lady Mac- 
beth, all unendowed for cruelty, in the excitement of 
an almost reahsed ambition, is found consenting to the 
work her sister and her husband have determined. 
Regan could not of her own purpose have thrust out 
her father. Goneril was needed to bring to pass this 
turn. She has been summoned by the author for 
this artistic object, through the motive of preventing 
Regan from taking her father's part. 

In the Third Act Lear's agony is complete. To 
break with his fourscore years of privilege and 
Lear pities princely living, and sink to the lowest depths 
his fool. of deprivation and suffering, would turn the 
wits of any man. But it is worth while that he find 
himself too poor to feed his devoted fool, since his 
heart begins to soften. The more he raves, the more 
patient and forgiving he becomes. Little by little he 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 309 

loses the power to identify his surroundings, though 
he yet sees pictures of his happy past, and remembers 
Tray and Blanche and Sweetheart, Cordelia's pet 
dogs, amid all the wreck of ideas and fancies. Then 
comes the worst ; that exquisite irritableness so often 
noted in the pathology of the insane to-day, when 
they cry out that the stars burn them, takes possession 
of his mind. Even the fool forgets his gibes and 
foolishness. Even Edgar, trepidated by the presence 
of his father, whom he must keep from recognising 
the tones of his voice, is moved to tears and pity. 
The punishment of Lear is full, for he has forgotten, 
in the sufferings of others, his own woes. 

Lear has been thought a savage and brutish 
nature. But the language that he uses argues a 
mind of singular refinement, and proves Le^rnot 
him capable of much loftiness of mood and savage or 
vision. A man is not so well known by 
the vocabulary he uses as by the elevation of 
thought that compels the selection of noble words. 
Even Lear's curses, so awful in their fierceness, are 
sublime. Were Lear bloodthirsty, he would have 
put Cordelia to death, when she crossed him, and 
struck down Goneril and Regan, while they baited 
him before Gloster castle, with his sword. 

Goneril is sensual, and, with all of woman's false- 
ness, false at heart. She exalts Oswald to Regan 
the post of favourite, puts on him princely nearer to 

, , . , . . . , . 1 Cordelia 

clothmg, sets him at writmg letters m her than to 
name, girds him with a sword and calls Goneril. 
him ' my gentleman.' Kent makes him betray the 



310 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

fact that he has no gentleman's breeding and cannot 
use a sword. But Goneril's fondness for his shape, 
and his dainty ' clerk ' services, does not hinder her 
from attempting to appropriate Edmund in an in- 
trigue, as soon as she has the chance to woo him. 
Regan is not of such coarse mould, and is fairly 
ladyHke (IV. v) over her rival's letter. Goneril would 
have gained possession of such a missive, under like 
circumstances, at any cost. Regan's worst conclu- 
sion concerning her sister's character is that she does 
not love her husband. Goneril's purity of thought 
would not have hindered a grosser judgment. 

Cordelia has been pronounced the most beautiful 
of Shakespeare's feminine creations, but this judg- 
ment seems not well advised. She has plainly no 
such sympathy with her father in his violence and 
passion as Imogen feels when Cymbeline banishes 
Posthumus. She shows something of Lear's un- 
shrinking, combative disposition, when she brings 
upon herself her father's curse. She knew what the 
disappointment would mean to him, she was well 
aware that her father would curse her to his own 
infinite hurt and sorrow ; but she forced him to his 
fate. What was it, furthermore, in outside conditions, 
that brought into play before her father this unsus- 
pected wilfulness ? Was it nineteenth-century revolt 
against enforced marriage with a designing suitor .-' 
Was it revulsion against the transparent flattery of 
her sisters .'' Was it that conscious love had arisen 
between France and herself, during his amorous 
sojourn, already, while that Burgundy was in prece- 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 31I 

dencc with her father ? Shakespeare has not helped 
us, with his wonted consideration, in these hard 
matters. 

CordeHa rises to her height of favour with us when 
the music plays softly, and the daughter kisses 
her restored and regenerate father awake. The recon- 
What could be more pathetic than the cli- ciiiation. 
max (IV. vii. 71) here, when Lear puts up his hand 
to the tears on Cordelia's face to make sure that they 
are tears indeed, that she is not a soul in bliss, and, 
so, far beyond his reach. Dimly, but potently in his 
consciousness, even in his madness, he has held fast 
to the presence of Cordelia, and felt his sin. Step 
by step he comes back into possession of himself, a 
self now beautiful in forbearance and forgiveness 
and humility : — 

You must bear with me. Pray you now 
Forget and forgive ; I am old and foolish. 

The scene ends in an idyllic picture. The gigantic 
frame of the once violent father, a little bent with 
recent suffering, his wealth of gray hair all dishev- 
elled, is supported by the slender, upstrained arm of 
Cordelia, which cannot well reach to his shoulder, as 
she walks to his slow step out from the tent into the 
air and sunshine. Small wonder is it that we hear 
this king saying after the battle and the capture, — 

Come, let's away to prison. 
^Ve two alone will sing like birds i' the cage. 
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down, 
And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live, 
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh 



312 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues 

Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too, 

Who loses, and who wins, who's in, who's out. 

And take upon 's the mystery of things. 

As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out, 

In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones, 

That ebb and flow by the moon. 

Yet this is the monster who, quaking with rage, 
had said to Cordelia scarcely one moon ago : — 

The barbarous Scythian, 
Or he that makes his generation messes 
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 
Be as well neighbour'd, piti'd, and reliev'd 
As thou my sometime daughter. 

We shall hardly call the piece a pessimistic study, 
wrought from the broodings of an injured mind. The 
whole ends tragically, following the course in Holin- 
shed, and Robert of Gloucester's Chronicle. Cordelia, 
to save her father, invaded England. Lear, to be 
saved by his daughter, became a traitor in his own 
kingdom. Lear survives his cure, and might have 
reigned again, but the cost of his follies kills him. 

Three more great tragedies, Othello, Antojiy and 
Cleopatra, and Coriolanns belong to the strenuous 
Julius period, from which Lear and Macbeth sprang. 
CcBsar. Xo thcsc, that we may make the group of 
principal tragedies complete, Jidiiis CcEsar should be 
added. The last-named drama antedates Othello, Lear, 
and perhaps Macbeth, we shall remember, by half a 
dozen years. It is a piece plain and homely, like 
the Droeshout portrait, yet no less masterly than the 
others, and not less despairing in tone and spirit. The 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 313 

pall of destiny is upon it. Liberty is in its shroud, 
yet the people keep holiday. They have lost even 
recognition of what their forefathers did when they 
thrust out the Tarquin. They have no principles; 
Pompey's triumph over the enemies of Rome, or 
Caesar's triumph over Pompey, are all the same to 
them. There is no longer any patriotism among them, 
and the strong arm is the only rule that they will re- 
spect. Nowhere else does Shakespeare lay his hand 
so heavily upon one of the world's great ones as he 
presumes to do in his treatment of Caesar here. We 
are forced to discard our notions of Caesar's greatness, 
and hold him dotardly and mean, until our consent to 
his death is won. Brutus represents the highest type 
of the Graeco-Roman mind, unconscious because with- 
out sense of sin, having no inward struggles, such as 
make Hamlet typical of the Gothic race, erring 
continually, yet incapable of self-distrust. By a 
feminine resolution he joins the conspirators, believ- 
ing that justice as administered by himself will 
redeem the self-seeking character of their cause. 
Portia is one of the noblest of Shakespeare's women, 
and deserves treatment as a principal character for 
her own sake. But, lest she absorb attention, she is 
shown but twice, being used as an aid in forcing our 
consent to Caesar's death. There is much of political 
philosophy and sociology in the piece. It is not a 
play to be lightly studied. 

OtJiello has been regarded by many students and 
critics as the highest triumph of Shakespeare's art. 
It is a study in the consequences of a union between 



314 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

two natures equally true and noble, but of different 
races, and of unlike station and culture. 
Desdemona is the child of fortune, born in 
a palace, and bred to a life of elegant leisure, yet strong 
and intolerant of the degeneracy which her race had 
reached. Othello has been brought up in camps, and 
lacks the refinement that comes from the pursuits of 
Renaissance literature, and the cultivation of art and 
music. Desdemona has been fascinated by Othello's 
simple and elemental greatness of soul. Othello has 
been flattered by Desdemona's admiration for his 
prowess and exploits. Since her father would never 
consent to her marriage with a Moor, Desdemona 
determines to trust herself to Othello's keeping, and 
turns her back upon her family and her circle. The 
question to be worked out dramatically is whether 
her trust in Othello is warranted, whether he is capa- 
ble of appreciating and guarding the jewel he has 
won. Can he work out her destiny with his own ? 
Did they err to wed from such disparate stations and 
modes of living .-' 

Had they remained always in the native environ- 
ment of the bride, it is likely that their happiness 
would have been unmarred. Shakespeare wishes the 
trial made under harder conditions. He devises the 
threat of a Turkish attack on Cyprus, to get Othello 
and his wife away from Venice. In the chief fortified 
city of the island, where Othello is absolute ruler 
under martial law, we can better study the nobility 
of the husband's mind. A storm is made to have 
destroyed the Turkish fleet, and the new-married pair 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 315 

are free to work out their felicity under circumstances 
in which they should have been peculiarly all the 
world to each other. The tempter of their peace 
comes in the shape of a cowardly and heartless office- 
seeker. He gets Othello's lieutenant into disgrace 
with his chief, and is made acting-subaltern in his 
stead. To secure this post perpetually, he makes 
Othello jealous of Cassio, the suspended lieutenant, 
a courtly and accomplished countryman of Desde- 
mona's, and manages to elicit a virtual order to put 
this man to death by assassination. In so far he has 
succeeded. But the wild nature that he has aroused 
will not stop with the death of Cassio. Othello feels 
that he must destroy the woman who has given her- 
self into his care. Had he been of Desdemona's race 
and breeding, he would have read her face, and 
found her soul. Being a Moor, he cannot know the 
difference between her and any other woman, born 
in a palace, of half her worth and rareness. The 
woman who craves manliness and strength must not 
compound for these virtues by forfeiting all the 
amenities and accomplishments of the highest living. 
Seldom will a match so made turn out to have been 
based upon the true affinities. The whole tragedy 
turns upon the material circumstance of Desdemona's 
handkerchief, given to Cassio in Othello's sight by 
Bianca, Cassio's mistress, who is introduced for this 
and another kindred purpose into the play. 

The Antony and Cleopatra is popularly assumed to 
deal baldly and unsparingly with unethical and even 
disreputable social conduct. The relations of the 



3l6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

title characters are as told of in history so notorious 
that most readers approach the play with some mis- 
Antonyand giving. But Shakcspcarc exercises no pes- 
cieopatra. simistic privileges even here. No dihgent 
and discerning student finds himself scandalised over 
the course of the plot, or the matter in the lines. 
There is the same eventual release and redemption 
from evil that we have noted in other dramas of this 
period. There are really two tragedies fused into 
one. The tragedy of Antony culminates in Act IV ; 
the tragedy of Cleopatra is developed in Act V. The 
art of the author is perhaps more potently exercised 
in this drama than elsewhere in all his works. The 
piece opens with a situation that confirms the tradi- 
tions and presumption touching the title characters. 
Antony is dancing attendance upon the Queen in a 
most un-Roman and unstalwart fashion. But as we 
listen to the dialogue we become persuaded that the 
blame does not belong equally to Rome and Egypt. 
Antony is not the principal in the case ; Cleopatra 
sohcits his devotion publicly and unblushingly. We 
are thus drawn into something like sympathy for 
Antony, which is increased when Cleopatra presently 
goads him into refusing audience to the messengers. 
Little by little we are led to give countenance to 
Antony, as he hears the reports of the messengers, 
since sent for, and regrets the death of his shrewish 
wife. He refuses to use the freedom that has now 
come to him ; he will leave Cleopatra, and take up 
the duties of his rule. Cleopatra gibes him, and plies 
him with all her wiles, from pretended wrath to tears, 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 317 

to prevent his going. Antony is considerate and 
chivalrous, but firm ; and the play finds itself pro- 
vided with a hero. The author begins at once, 
before the scene finishes, to redeem Cleopatra, and 
almost accomplishes this by the enthusiastic and 
whole-souled way in which he makes her give up her 
control. Before the act is closed, the play is provided 
also with an irresistible heroine. By no sort of 
means, if Shakespeare had attempted to treat these 
characters, as history presents them, together, could 
he have made them practicable for his purpose. By 
withdrawing Antony from Cleopatra, and leaving the 
burden of blame to be borne by her, the author 
grounds the whole on ethic principles. In Hke fash- 
ion he develops and completes the tragedy of Antony 
by making Cleopatra chargeable with his ruin. Then 
he redeems again his heroine. Antony perishes be- 
cause he has been too generous, and esteemed himself 
too lightly. Cleopatra, because undisciphned, selfish, 
self-willed, has been the evil genius of his career. 
But there are magnificent possibilities in her nature. 
In any other environment she might have been alto- 
gether noble. Bred under the corrupt influences of a 
degenerate civilisation, vain and self-indulgent almost 
beyond belief, she is nevertheless grand in strength 
and vision. The death of Antony, and the determi- 
nation to save herself from Caesar, arouse her better 
powers. Right aspirations possess her. In the sub- 
limity of her dying thoughts she forgets the royal 
finery in which she has ordered herself arrayed. Her 
selfishness is merged in the completeness of her re- 



3l8 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

nunciation. That she comes to death when she has 
but begun to live is of the essence of this second 
tragedy. The tragedy of Cleopatra is greater than 
the tragedy of Antony, for Antony had never lived 
selfishly or ignobly. The play is a study in charac- 
ter consequences, and makes for righteousness more 
potently than a thousand sermons. 

In strong contrast with Julius Ccesar and Antony 
and Cleopatra stands Coriolanus, a play of stalwart 
^ . , and patriotic Rome in the early age. The 

Coriolanus. /■ ^ j <=> 

beginnings of the latter-day degeneracy, 
which is exhibited so powerfully in the first two of 
the dramas just named, are hinted at. The plebeians 
have achieved their first conquest of power, and are 
using it irresponsibly and wildly against the aristo- 
cratic party. The newly appointed tribunes resort to 
demagoguery at the outset, and enrich {cf. IV. vi. 160) 
themselves at the people's cost. The potent figure 
in the play is Volumnia, the perfect type of Roman 
womanhood, from whose strength the conquerors of 
the world were born. It is her pride, her life, to have 
been the mother of a hero, who has done the state 
noble services, who bears the marks of twenty-seven 
wounds, and has come the third time home crowned 
with the oak. The father of this champion seems to 
have been no patriot, struck no blows for his country, 
saved the life of no citizen ; for nowhere does this 
proud dame mention him. The son inherits his 
mother's strength, but derives a foolish, bragging 
egotism seemingly from the father. Coriolanus cares 
nothing, or next to nothing, for the state. He covets 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 319 

only to be invincible, and would, as he declares, 
change sides to fight with Tullus Aufidius, whom he 
thinks he outrivals, and who is everything that a Co- 
riolanus cannot be. Cominius and Titus Lartius and 
Menenius are typic representatives of the better class 
that has built Rome and is defending it and sus- 
taining the burdens of its civic life. Volumnia, who 
once saves her son and once the state, in his despite, 
is no whit unwomanly, making up in motherly devo- 
tion what she loses by the exercise of a more than 
masculine force of will. The beautiful thing in the 
play is the boyish obedience of Coriolanus to his 
mother. His wife Virgilia is his counterpart, as well 
as Volumnia's foil, shrinking from her husband's 
feats, and happy in him for his personal and domestic 
worth. The play has been called a tragedy of pride. 
It is rather a tragedy of selfishness and self-will. 
With a little more willingness to sacrifice for the gen- 
eral good, Coriolanus might have been the chief 
figure in Roman annals. But he was so made up 
that he became instead a traitor. The play is also in 
part a study in the civics of classic time, when the 
state seemed not to exist for its citizens, but its citi- 
zens for the state. 

The great plays of the list, while generally sup- 
posed to comprise only these that we have dealt with 
from among the tragedies, must fairly in- The great 
elude some of the comedies. There can <=omedies. 
be small doubt as to the choice ; no one of these six. 
As You Like it, TJie Merchant of Venice, Twelfth 
Nighty Tanmig of the Shrew, Midsummer Night" s 



320 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

Dream, and Much Ado about Nothing, can be left 
out. Some glimpses of the human nature and of the 
art in these, time must be found to add. 

Much Ado about Nothing is well named, being one 

of the slenderest of all the plays. It is founded upon 

the reciprocal irritation that some strong 

Much Ado. ^ ^ ^ . , r 1 , 

natures seem to feel at sight of each other, 
when they are nevertheless near to being complete 
affinities. Beatrice is in this case the stronger, and 
is drawn with something hke a motherly impulse to 
/C/ Benedict, who has been advised to conquer his fond- 
■ ness for her. Benedict is for his part flattered that/4/ 
one who has put him down in wit-combats should 
affect him hopelessly. To give substance to the 
piece, and afford the lovers a makeshift motive for 
dealing with each other, there is a second plot. It 
would not do to have Beatrice made game of in her 
own house, so she is presented to us as but a niece 
to Leonato. Leonato's daughter is traduced by a 
Spanish villain, and Benedict engages, because Bea- N 
trice requests it, to avenge her. But the plot has 
been overheard by Dogberry and Verges, two blun- 
dering English constables, imported to Messina to 
furnish farcical matter for the piece. Italian officers 
would have known and used their native tongue 
unambitiously and correctly. Hero suffers in a way 
that amounts to tragedy ; but we do not take her 
troubles very seriously, the play getting thus its 
proper counterpoise of sorrow. Benedict does not 
fight his friend Claudio, and was made to challenge 
him merely to establish to us the seriousness of his 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 32 1 

feeling, and the subordination of his mind and will 
to Beatrice. In spite of the lightness of the plot, 
profound principles of psychology and human nature 
are depended upon to keep the whole sensible and 
sound. 

TJie Midsummer Aighfs Dream seems to have been 
inspired by the wish to make a play dealing with 
fairies and the unseen world of their activ- ... , 

Alidsum- 

ity. In Shakespeare's age the popular mind mer Night's 
was still astir over interferences assumed to ^^"'^"" 
come from the domain of tricksy spirits, and Robin 
Goodfellow was believed in perhaps as steadfastly 
as any person mentioned in the catechism. The title 
betrays how slight were the obligations that Shake- 
speare was wilHng to assume for the characters and 
happenings of the piece. Quite evidently it would 
be impossible to found a play upon the loves or for- 
tunes of a Titania and an Oberon ; these cannot be 
made more than incidental to the drama as a whole, 
however spectacular the mischief they are to do. So 
the dramatisation, based upon the occasion of the 
nuptials of the great Theseus, king or "duke" of 
Athens in the heroic age, and Hippolyta, queen of 
the Amazons, belongs to a world much higher than 
the plane of elves, higher almost than the human. 
As the maximum consummation, in part fancifully 
conceived, we desire that the felicity or comfort of 
this virtually demigod and demigoddess pair may not 
be marred by any untoward or ill-advised entertain- 
ment. We wish that their union might {cf. I. i. 16-19) 
be solemnised in epic style, or at least with as much 



322 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

dignity as was ever compassed by the masterpieces 
of the Athenian stage. Also we are in Hvely sym- 
pathy with Hippolyta, who (I. i. 122) would not have 
Theseus unrelenting, in the midst of his own happi- 
ness, toward other lovers not so fortunate as them- 
selves. By the graciousness of the pair all turns out 
comedially and well, the ridiculous effort of Bottom 
and his companions — who are borrowed from Eng- 
land like Dogberry and Verges in MiicJi Ado — fur- 
nishing the clownish or burlesque components, and 
focussing the action after the fairy part of the play 
has been wound up. The majesty and greatness of 
the Duke's mind, and the divine reserve of Hippolyta's 
disposition, are brought out in the first paragraphs of 
Act V, and lift these personages to their superior 
level, though modern playing does not in general bring 
this out. The two other pairs of lovers are taken up 
into their company to furnish audience to the players. 
There is very palpable satire upon the subjectivity of 
love in the juice of the flower, and in the fact that 
Demetrius is not disabused of its charm, but marries 
Helena on the strength of its influence alone. The 
makeshift heroine of the play is Helena, and the hero, 
Demetrius. 

The Taming of the Shrew appears to have been 
adapted from an earlier play, which is still extant. 
Taming 0/ It bcars some resemblance to Much Ado in 
the Shrew, ^^i^^ j^ jg jg^jj -^^ Italy, has a double plot, and 

possesses a heroine that is perhaps echoed in Beatrice 
of the later play. The summary expedients of Petru- 
chio, as well as their effect upon Katherina, are pretty 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 323 

largely brought over from the earlier version, and 
leave in consequence for the student interpretative 
dilificulties unusual in Shakespeare's work. It is cer- 
tain that to many readers the results seem to be 
derived without definite or reasonable causation. 
Petruchio knows that Katherina is a good woman 
at heart, a little headstrong at the beginning, and 
now but in small degree responsible for the plight 
in which he finds her. Katherina knows that Petru- 
chio is a good man, and that he sees through her and 
likes her ; and she is helpless. She has been driven 
to unfilial and defiant conduct by wrong home treat- 
ment until she almost believes herself irredeemably 
bad. Petruchio saves her in her own despite. The 
discipline that marriage brings to strong natures, 
generally in long years of renunciation, is condensed 
into a fortnight of half -ironic compulsion. The In- 
duction of the earlier play is retained by Shakespeare, 
who apologetically saves by it the necessity of pre- 
senting the piece as a sober or first-hand study in 
domestic wisdom. 

TwclftJi Night stands as a comedy somewhat apart 
from the three plays now considered. In it the char- 
acter of Maria goes well with the women Twei/tk 
of the preceding ; Viola and Olivia rank ^^ff^^- 
rather with the women of the tragedies. Incapable 
of coarse or biting speech, and without wit-combat 
gifts, Viola is still as strong as Beatrice or Helena 
or Katherina. She does indeed what none of these 
could do, recovering her lost lover by charity and 
gentleness with strategy. Shakespeare seems to 



324 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

have borrowed the main features of the plot from 
Gr Itigannati, an Italian comedy dating from 1537. 
The heroine of this play, once beloved by a noble- 
man, and separated from him by residence in another 
city, learns that he has so far forgotten her as to pay 
court to a rich lady of his circle. Disguising herself, 
she enters his service, and is soon sent to woo as his 
proxy the new flame. But the lady falls in love with 
his messenger and rejects him. Shakespeare seems 
to have been attracted to this plot by the possibilities 
in the role of the heroine, and he has made Viola the 
most refined and noble woman of all the comedies. 
Orsino, to suit this part, is conceived as in love with 
his ideals, as Romeo was, worshipping Olivia as Rosa- 
lind was worshipped, afar off. Since Orsino has not 
yet found his Juliet, he wooes by proxy. He has 
not quite reached the point, when the course of the 
play is stopped, of discerning her. But he is already 
hedged about by the occult and subtle influences of 
her sex ; the strange comfort of Viola's presence and 
ministries has almost won him to himself. Yet she 
wooes Orsino with great unselfishness and sympathy, 
being always ready to yield him on seeing that he 
has Olivia's affection. She is withal just and true 
to her rival, though with infinite opportunity to be 
false. Managing to see Olivia's face, and discover- 
ing there beauty perhaps superior to her own, she 
shows no dislike of it or its possessor. She is as 
gentle and optimistic as Imogen, and as self-poised. 
There is somewhat of the same comic satire as is 
seen in the former plays. Olivia is made to reject 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 325 

the Duke because of his effeminate advances, but 
falls in love with his page, who is a woman. Later 
her affections are transferred without dif^culty to 
Sebastian, who can scarcely be of larger proportions 
or more manly in appearance than his sister. There 
is some rough comedy, to keep the sentiment parts 
of the play from seeming too strained and trivial. 
Sir Toby is provided in part to insure physical means 
for the arrest and immurement of Malvolio. With- 
out the egotism and sanctimony of this last character, 
the main business of the play would seem too bald. 
The drinking and maudlin talk and singing, the 
jokes of the clown, and the countrified graces of Sir 
Andrew's dancing make the background on which 
the love matters of the people of quahty fail to look 
absurd. It is the most refined of all the comedies, 
and mingles comedy, humour, and pathos in an un- 
wonted combination. 

As You Like It is perhaps the most pleasing, in 
the popular judgment, of all the comedies. It seems 
to have been written in a vision of sheer ro- as you 
mance, centring about Arden, home of the ^^^^ ^^' 
Robin Hoods in France, and inspired by Lodge's 
novel of Rosalynde. It is an idyl of the forest, of 
emancipated, unconventional existence ; and the main 
incidents are managed without much reason or 
probability. Rosalind is the impersonation of pure 
womanhood, unweighted with philosophy, or heavy, 
self-conscious declamation, and saved by adversity 
from the vice of selfishness. Orlando is well born, 
but reared meanly as a rustic, and so enabled to over- 



326 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

match the great wrestler in brawn. He is endowed 
for victory, that he may win the admiration and love 
of Rosalind. In Arden the differences wrought by 
conventionalism disappear ; Orlando is as acceptable 
as anybody. There have been cruel banishments 
and wrongs, these seeming in the atmosphere of 
palaces but incidental, inevitable. In the primitive 
simplicity of Arden they look monstrous. Touch- 
stone keeps the echo of the old life well in our ears, 
yet with true fool consistency matches with a wench 
of sheepfolds. Touchstone is the most genial and 
pohshed of all clowns, always content to spare his 
tongue rather than sting a sufferer. The deep and 
searching glimpses of life under varying conditions 
constitute the chief charm of the piece. It seems 
not to have been written for the sake of any par- 
ticular idea or character, and lacks the rough comedy 
of preceding plays. 

In The Merxhant of Venice Shakespeare's interest 
appears to have centred in Shylock as the typic 
The Mer- sixteenth-ccntury Jew. The study shows 
chant of remarkable insight into the Hebrew con- 
Vemce. sciousncss, and goes far toward alleviating 
various Christian prejudices against the race. To 
the superficial reader Shylock has too often seemed 
nothing but the impersonation of greed and mahce. 
The story of the bond, and of the lady of Belmont, 
who donned the garb of a lawyer and rescued the 
surety, probably attracted the author to this theme. 
The love part of the play must of course be second- 
ary, since Bassanio is a spendthrift, and cannot be 



GROUPINGS OF THE PLAYS 327 

made much of as a hero. Portia must be clever 
rather than — Hke her namesake in the Julius Ccesav 
— great, or we shall regret the match. So, after 
Shylock, Antonio appears to hold the author's artistic 
attention, and furnishes the work its name. Culti- 
vated readers in Shakespeare's time perhaps dis- 
cerned, as we sometimes do not, the extraordinary- 
marks of breeding, of instinctive and unconscious 
courtesy, with which the play begins. We are 
inclined to put the piece into the hands of school- 
boys, as an approach to Shakespeare. We were 
wiser to save it till at least the primer of modern 
gentility has been mastered. No people, no age, 
has rivalled in generous and high-minded considera- 
tion the Venetian aristocracy of the times in ques- 
tion. Nothing short of the noble fellowship, and 
sympathy, and more than fatherly devotion, that we 
see in Antonio, could have enabled him to forget how 
Bassanio had abused his bounty. On no other basis 
of intercourse and esteem could Antonio have been 
made, in reason, to subscribe to such a bond. * The 
treatment of Portia, in the matter of the caskets, 
is exquisite, and reveals again the author's infinite 
knowledge of woman's nature. The legal conclu- 
sions that Shakespeare makes Portia propound in the 
trial scene have been much criticised, but it is not 
clear that he intended them to be different from the 
feminine judgments that they very palpably are^^' 
The play is perhaps least satisfying in the repudia- 
tion, by Jessica, of her father. Converts from Juda- 
ism are not made often in just such fashion. The 



328 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

second love plot is needed to give substance and dig- 
nity, by contrast, to the first. 

There are other plays, tragedies as well as come- 
dies, which, were such summarisings helpful, might 
be added to the list now finished. But there can be 
little profit, save sometimes as a clew, in anticipating 
the main conclusions of personal study. All these 
things may become open secrets to the prepared 
mind. The gift of insight, which we all use so well 
outside of books, needs to be quickened by the ex- 
pert study of a few plays. Any one who can read 
character in actual life, can learn to read it essentially 
as well in dramas and novels. 



VIII 

PERSONAL STUDY OF THE PLAYS 

It seems scarcely practicable to contribute more 
toward showing what Shakespeare is, and of what 
worth he is or may be to the world, in an introductory, 
provisional view, than has now been done. All great 
literature, as has been illustrated, is potential, meaning 
much more than is conveyed or said. Enough has 
been shown, it is hoped, to make clear how Shake- 
speare and other masters communicate things that 
cannot be told. The highest cannot be spoken ; but 
we can be made, by art, to experience it. To bore is 
to tell, or try to tell, the whole. 

There is no way to comprehend Shakespeare with 
less labour than is requisite to comprehend a single 
play. To know one of his dramas thoroughly to know 
is equivalent to knowing Shakespeare. To «"« play is 
have studied the thirty-seven plays superfi- shake- 
cially, is not to know him or them. It were speare. 
as wise to attempt studying a picture gallery over in 
half-a-dozen hurried visits. All the world is aware 
how long it takes to know a painting. There is as 
much to learn in a great play of Shakespeare's as 
in any product of the painter's art. The man whose 
desire is to come into acquaintance and fellowship 
with Shakespeare and like master spirits, and is 

329 



330 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

willing to use his leisure to that end, may achieve 
his wish. To make this practicable, inductive out- 
Useofthe hnes, in the shape of Questions, have been 
Questions, added to this volume. They reduce the 
unit of difficulty, yet leave all the ethic and artistic 
meaning to be discerned independently by the learner. 
All the discussions, indeed, of the several plays con- 
sidered, except the first, were intended to prepare 
for work of this kind. In the case of Cymbeline, the 
rights of the reading public, it is confessed, have 
been invaded. But this one piece was sacrificed, as 
was in part explained at the time, for the sake of the 
rest and of Shakespeare at large. No Questions on 
this play, consequently, have been appended ; but The 
Winter's Tale and Romeo and Juliet are analysed 
entire, and without reference to the partial treatment 
attempted in earher pages. 

The first desideratum, in the Shakespeare work 
proposed, is an edition that explains all allusions 
The litera- and all Elizabethan peculiarities in the text. 
Shake- ^^ ^'"^ ^^^ much aid, until some personal 
speare. comprehension of the given play has been 
reached, to resort to Shakespeare commentaries and 
manuals. The impressions of other people cannot 
be substituted for ours, and were this possible, would 
only retard the development of insight. The problems 
of literary discernment are our own, and must be 
worked out patiently, like school tasks, without copy- 
ing from our fellows. After we have grasped the 
essential meanings of a play, it is well to examine 
the opinions of critics concerning it, and weigh our 



PERSONAL STUDY OF THE PLAYS 33 1 

conclusions in the light of theirs. There are many- 
helps of this kind, and the number is almost daily- 
increasing. Chief among books for collateral or 
supplemental reference are the Variorum volumes 
of Mr. Furness, which give not only variant readings 
of the text, but likewise some of the best notes and 
comments from all expounders. The list includes, 
at present writing, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Ham- 
let, Lear, OtJiello, Merchant of Venice, As Yon Like Lt, 
The Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, The Win- 
ter's Tale, and Much Ado. Among books that may 
be profitably consulted, after study of a play, are 
Coleridge's Lectures on Shakespeare ; Gervinus's 
Shakespeare Commentaries ; Dowden's Shakspere, 
his Mind and Art ; Hudson's Shakespeare, his Life, 
Art, and Characters ; Grant White's Studies in Shake- 
speare ; Mrs. Jameson's CJiaracteristics of Women; 
Ulrici's Shakespeare's Dramatic Art ; Moulton's 
Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist; and George 
Brandes's Shakespeare, A Critical Study. Some in- 
formation concerning great stage interpreters of 
principal plays can be conveniently reached in Dow- 
den's Lntroduction to Shakespeare, and the reprinted 
papers of TJie Home Circle Library. For further 
study of Shakespeare as man and author, J. O. 
Halliwell-Phillipps's Outlines of the Life of Shake- 
speare, and Sidney Lee's Life, will be most useful. 
They have been drawn upon largely in the prepara- 
tion of the biographical sketch in the present volume. 
For a summary of results in the investigation of 
Shakespeare's form, especially with reference to 



332 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? 

the chronology of certain plays, the Introduction 
to The Leopold Shakspere will be found suggestive 
and valuable. More extended reading upon this 
topic would carry the student to the Transactions of 
the New Shakspere Society, and other works not in 
the scope of the present treatise. Any working 
Shakespeare library should include further Abbott's 
Shakespearian Grammar, Schmidt's Shakespeare Lexi- 
con, and Bartlett's Concordance to Shakespeare. 



APPENDIX 



APPENDIX 



OUTLINE QUESTIONS 

I 

THE WINTER'S TALE 
ACT I 

SCENE I 

1 {a) What is the point in having one of these courtiers 
address the other, by name, at the very beginning? {b) How 
does the author manage to make known to his audience, which 
is without printed programmes, what countries are represented 
here ? How too does he show to which the courtiers respectively 
belong? ic) What 'difference' (1. 4) between Bohemia and 
Sicily does Archidamus seem to have in mind? 

2 (a) Does it appear (II. 6-8) that Camillo and Archidamus 
are introduced for their own sakes, or for some other reason? 
{p) What does Archidamus (11. 9-14) imply as to the character 
of the entertainment that the Sicilian court has furnished or is 
furnishing? (<:) Is there any hint as to whether the entertain- 
ment, or the visit, has been prolonged or brief ? {d) Can you 
explain why Camillo (11. 18, 19) seems willing to accept, instead 
of deprecating, the immoderate acknowledgments tendered by 
Archidamus ? 

3 (a) What is implied (11. 23, 24) by Camillo as to the extent 
to which Bohemia has put himself under obligation to Sicily? 
{b) What purpose, to us, does the rest of his paragraph serve? 
{c) Does there seem to be any reason why Mamillius is men- 
tioned, but not his mother? (</) Why is the scene cast in prose? 
{e) Why could not this scene be dispensed with? 

335 



336 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [I. ii 

SCENE II 

1 (a) At what time of year (cf. i. 6) are we to understand 
that this play opens? {b) In what season, then, must Polyxenes 
have begun his nine months' stay? {c) In the story from which 
Shakespeare drew, Sicily was the visiting king, and Bohemia the 
host. Is there any apparent reason why the author has reversed 
these roles? {d) Which would be the pleasanter country at 
any time of year? Besides, how far does this absurd lingering 
of Polyxenes seem due to the character of the man? {e) What 
in the tone or language (11. 1-9) of the first paragraph would 
seem meant to be significant as to the strength and caliber of 
this king? 

2 {a) Do you think that Leontes, from his reply (11. g, 10), 
expects that his friend will withdraw speedily? (/>) Do you 
imagine that Leontes is now exercised for the first time over his 
friend's visit? With what evident feeling and motive does he 
speak? (c) What is the effect of his utterance upon Polyxenes? 
(^d) Why does Polyxenes add to his reply ' I have stay'd to 
tire your royalty ' ? (^) Is the effect upon Leontes of saying 
this apparently what he expected? 

3 (^a) Why is the next utterance (1. 16) so curt? {b) Why 
does Leontes, having his wish, propose another week of stay? 
(^) What would have been the harm of letting Polyxenes with- 
draw, on a day's notice, as he proposes? {d) What of Leontes 
proposing to compromise by making the limit three days and a 
half ? How far is it large-minded and royal? 

4 {a) How can Polyxenes insist now (11. 23, 24) that his 
affairs * do even drag' him homeward? ((5) Why does he allude 
(1. 26) to the charge or expense of his staying? {c) Why does 
Leontes call on the Queen to speak? {d) What do you find in 
the tone and spirit of his words to her? {e) Why has she not 
spoken before? 

5 (a) Why does the Queen say that she was intending to 
hold her peace even longer? Do you think this true wholly? 
(b) What means (11. 31, 32) 'this satisfaction the bygone day 
proclaimed ' ? (c) Do you judge, from the next two lines, 
that she thinks her husband and Polyxenes are merely fencing? 
(d) Is the answer (1. ;^2)) of Leontes literal or ironical? 



I. 11] THE WINTER'S TALE 337 

6 (a) Is there any reason apparently why Hermione speaks 
thus of Polyxenes, and not to him? (d) Does she mean to im- 
ply, in (11. 34-37) her next paragraph, that Polyxenes does not 
care for his family? (c) Do you think that he has a wife? 
(c/) Why, since she will allow Leontes (11. 39-42) a month 
beyond the limit, does she not adventure a larger borrowing? 

7 (a) On what invitation does Hermione base (11. 44, 45) 
her seeming importunities? (d) Do you think she wishes to 
keep Polyxenes from staying? (c) Would you have remained 
on such requests as hers? (d) Why does Polyxenes, under 
such conditions, accede? 

8 (a) Why does Hermione at once (1. 60) start talk 'of my 
lord's tricks and yours'? (3) Why does she solicit (11. 65, 66) 
uncivilly from her friend testimony that her husband was ' the 
verier wag o' the two'? (c) Why does not Leontes talk, and 
why does she not try to engage him as well as Polyxenes in the 
new topic? (d) Do you think the Queen enjoys the advantage 
(11. 80-86) that she soon wins over Polyxenes? Why does she 
push it? 

9 (a) Why should Leontes (1. 86) now speak, and in the way 
he does? (^) Does Hermione probably recognise the spirit of 
the question which he asks? (c) What does her husband wish 
or intend apparently by his next remark? (d) Does the rest of 
the paragraph (11. 88, 89) seem to go well with what he has just 
said? 

10 (a) With what feeling does Hermione take up the last 
utterance of her husband? (If) Does she seem brilliant and 
facile in the lines (11. 90-101) that follow? Do you get the 
impression that she likes wit-combats of this kind? (c) Does 
she seem troubled? (d) What is the effect (11. 101-105) of her 
words upon Leontes? (e) Is what he says wholly genuine, has 
his feeling altered? 

1 1 (a) What does Hermione do when Leontes has said his 
answer? (d) Why does she not prolong the interview that she 
was called in to save? (c) What did Elizabethan etiquette 
require when a lady wished to turn aside, as here, from some 
group or station in an audience-room? (d) Do you think Shake- 

z 



338 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [I. ii 

speare expects us to approve Leontes here (11. 108-119) in what 
he says? Do you think he intends to make us detest him? 
Why does he cause us to overhear the King's words? 

12 (a) Has the smutched nose of Mamillius any influence 
with us as regards his mother? (d) Do you find the King's 
jealousy wholly unjustifiable up to this point? (c) How far are 
you inclined to blame him for what he goes on (11. 128-146) to 
say? 

13 (a) Does Hermione hear anything of what Leontes is say- 
ing to the boy and to himself? (d) What apparently (1. 146) 
has Polyxenes noticed ? {c) What word in Hermione's reply 
has stress? (^) What does Hermione mean in asking her hus- 
band (1. 150) if he is 'moved'? (e) How far is Leontes telling 
(11. 151-160) the truth? 

14 (a) What do you infer (1. 155) is the King's age? 
(i>) What pleases him (1. 162) in Mamillius's answer? (c) Do 
you see any motive or animus in (11. 163-165) Leontes's ques- 
tion? (d) If the lad's mother were living, would or would not 
Leontes be likely, in his present mood, to allude to her? 

15 (a) Why does Leontes now (1. 172) withdraw from his 
friend and the Queen? (^) Why has not Shakespeare had the 
Queen and Polyxenes withdraw, before this, from the King? 

(c) Why does Hermione (11. 177, 178) make answer as she does? 
{d) Is it apparent why Mamillius (1. 190) does not go away as 
bid? (e) What is in his mind seemingly that prompts (1. 208) 
his last words ? 

16 (a) Why has the author withdrawn Mamillius and his 
mother with Polyxenes? (d) What has he accomplished by use 
of them, and how has Mamillius helped? (c) Why does the 
author not close the scene? (d) What explanation of Camillo's 
presence during what has passed ? 

17 (a) Does Leontes apparently wish or expect Camillo to 
behave as if he understood what he had heard and witnessed? 

(d) Why does not Camillo so behave? (c) What is the result 
of his attempt to be evasive? (d) Do you like this man Camillo? 
Why? (e) How does Leontes first (11. 235-241, 242-249) at- 
tempt to control Camillo? (/) Do you think that the King is 
yet clear as to what he would have Camillo do ? 



I. II] THE WINTER'S TALE 339 

18 (a) Does Leontes recommend himself in his open conver- 
sation about his Queen? (d) What sort of a plot would you 
expect such a man, in such a state of mind, to make? (c) Do 
you think Camillo respects the Queen, or cares for her welfare? 
(d) Why is Leontes made to speak (11. 313, 314) of Camillo's 
advancement, is it for Camillo's sake or ours? (e) Why does he 
consent (11. 333, 334) to believe, and to do the crime? (/) What 
of the condition that (11. 335, 336) he requires, is it significant? 
C?) What has been accomplished in this part of the scene? 
(//) Why was this not made into a scene by itself ? 

19 (a) Why does the author have Camillo utter the soliloquy 
(11. 351-364) that follows the agreement? (^) Why does he 
(1. 364) refuse to salute Polyxenes? (c) Why has the King 
(11. 370-375) failed to keep his promise to seem friendly? (d) Do 
you think Camillo intended at first to betray the plot? (e) Show 
how the understanding between him and Polyxenes is evolved. 
(/) Do you recognise any Sicilian, rather than Bohemian, 
characteristics in Leontes? 

20 (a) Does Polyxenes show that he has had suspicions of 
the jealousy that he has caused? (/>) Does he appear to realise 
that the Queen may in any manner suffer or be profited by the 
course he takes? (c) Do you feel sure of the reason? (<•/) Do 
you recognise any Bohemian, rather than Sicilian, characteristics 
(cf. I (c), above) in this man? (e) Does the scene, all things 
considered, seem long? (/") Does it show marks of haste or 
condensation anywhere ? 



ACT II 

SCENE I 

1 (a) Do your impressions of Hermione appear to be the 
same now as in the scene just finished? (d) Does Mamillius, 
now that his nose has had attention, seem to have the same 
mother that he had before? (c) Why is he made (II. 5, 6) to 
object to the petting of the First Lady? (rf) Why is he made 
(11. 7-1 1 ) to give his observations concerning brows? 

2 (a) Are boys of Mamillius's age generally found in conver- 
sation with their elders? (d) Was Mamillius at play with his 
toys when the scene opened ? (c) What do you infer from this, 
and from (1. 22) 'I am for you again'? (^) What do you find 
in the circumstance that this lad seems to tell his mother stories 
that he has not heard from her? Where does he get them? 
(^) Is there anything significant in the way he holds to his sen- 
tence (11. 29, 30), without restarting, in spite of the interruption? 

3 (a) Can you see the object of bringing Mamillius and his 
mother thus together in the foreground? (d) What has given 
Leontes the impulse to come here? (c) Why does he bring 
along his lords? (d) What did he think or intend to do on 
finding Hermione? (e) What does he do (11. 36-53) in the first 
moments ? (/) What makes him disappoint himself ? 

4 (a) What action seems to accompany (1. 56) 'Give me the 
boy'? (d) Can you find the motive for this? (c) Are you sure 
as to what lies back (1. 58) of Hermione's inquiry? (d) What 
can have been the reason of the King's paragraph (11. 64-78) 
to the lords? (e) Why should Hermione answer what is not 
addressed to her? (/") How far does she show excitement or 
humiliation or grief ? (^) How would most women, in such a 
presence, at such a moment, have behaved? 

5 (a) After Leontes has again spoken, what is prevailingly 
her feeling? (6) Do you take it that Leontes intended, when 

340 



II. 1] THE WINTER'S TALE 34 1 

he came, to condemn (1. 104) beforehand those who might be 
minded to speak for her? (c) Do you think he intended to 
apprehend her in just this way? (^) What of the force, and 
the greatness of it, that defeats him thus? 

6 (a) Is it unwomanly and weak that Hermione should now 
(11. 107-115) address the lords? (d) Why does she not appeal 
to them to save her? Can you imagine such a thing happening 
under present circumstances? (c) Why is it that Hermione feels 
no dread of anything? (d) Do you suppose the lords feel any 
such fear as she is lacking in? 

7 (a) Does Leontes think (1. 115) that he is kept from speak- 
ing? (d) Does Hermione feel, and intend to exploit, her su- 
premacy over all the rest? Does she really give honour here to 
whom honour is due? (c) Do you think the King has ever 
felt the effect of her displacing, silencing personality before? 
{d) Does the subordination that she has effected here seem due 
to constant forces of personality, or to a new sentiment or mood? 
(e) Does Hermione seem like one who would wish to rule her 
husband ? Do you think her inclined to shrewishness or egotism ? 

8 (a) Why does not Leontes say the things he is so desirous 
of uttering? Has Hermione really left for him since no pause? 

(d) What do you find in (11. 1 16-124) her final paragraph? 

(c) When do you think Leontes gives (1. 125) his order, before 
or after the Queen has set forth? (d) What indeed does his 
order, or (1. 103) the previous one, really call for? Were this a 
low criminal, what would his guards be doing or have done? 

(e) What do they do, how do they 'guard' the Queen? 
(/) Why do they not obey the King, and why does he not call 
them to account for failing to proceed as he intended? 

9 (a) What has been accomplished so far in this scene? 

(d) Why should not a new scene begin at this point? Does 
the part of the play that we have had seem self-sufficing or pre- 
liminary? (c) Which of the lords that now speak is specifically 
our proxy? (d) What comes of the dialogue, up to 1. 180, be- 
tween Leontes and his lords ? (e) What is the effect on us, as 
regards both Leontes and the Queen, of knowing that the case 
has been referred to Delphi? (/) What does Leontes intend 
(1. 197) apparently to say in public? 



342 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [H. II 

SCENE II 

1 {a) Would it have made any difference in our impressions 
if Paulina had come with a lady instead of this ' Gentleman ' for 
her usher? {b) What do you say of her manner or bearing with 
the Gaoler; is it unwomanly? (c) Why does Shakespeare have 
the Gaoler require that the attendants (1. 13, 14) be withdrawn? 
(d) Why does Paulina say (1. 26) 'a boy'' f 

2 {a) Why does not Paulina see the incongruity (11. 31-35 
and 37-39) between the two things she proposes? {b) Do you 
think the Queen will take kindly to the idea of having her child 
carried to the King? (c) If she does, how will you explain her 
yielding? {d) Does Paulina seem of stronger will and presence 
than Hermione? {e) Do your impressions of Hermione seem to 
have undergone any change since Paulina appeared? Can you 
explain what has really happened? 

3 {a) Do the think the birth of this daughter, in the jail, 
has made any change in Hermione's feeling about her troubles? 
{b) Would it not have been better, dramatically, if the author 
had permitted us to see the interior of the prison ? {c) Why 
does not the Gaoler, as a matter of course, propose to get per- 
mission from the King (11. 57, 58) to pass the child? (</) How 
is it that Hermione, though disgraced and helpless, has (1. 64) 
the Gaoler's sympathy? {e) How do you think the feeling about 
her is in Sicily? (/) What is this scene for? 

SCENE III 

1 {a) What do the first six words tell us ? {b) Is the reason 
that the King gives the right one? {c) Why does he wish 
Hermione destroyed? {d) What word in 1. 11 has stress? 
Who has told the boy the dishonour of his mother? {e) What 
means 'fix'd the shame on't in himself? (/) How fully does 
Leontes seem to realise the meaning of what he is made to 
tell us here? 

2 (a) Who is meant (1. 18) by hhn? (b) Has Paulina 
chanced upon a good hour to appear with the child before the 
King? (c) Do you think that the author has prepared Paulina 
and the King especially in order that her visit may be successful ? 
{d) Do you imagine that Paulina's voice is soft, and that she 



II. Ill] THE WINTER'S TALE 343 

uses low tones in the King's anteroom ? (e) How far is she happy 
in the selection of an opening topic? 

3 (a) Can you think of any reason why the King has charged 
that Paulina, more than other court women, should be kept away? 
(^) Do you think that Antigonus, speaking (1. 45) of 'your dis- 
pleasure's peril and on mine,' was wholly serious? (c) Does the 
King appear capable, even in his present mood, of appreciating 
the humour of it ? (d) Do you think Antigonus really proud (1. 50) 
of his henpecked condition? (^) Can you explain how it is that 
Paulina has never learned the existence or use of such a thing as 
tact? 

4 (a) Why has the author made Paulina such a person as will 
drive the King, as at once (1. 61) happens, to force her from his 
presence? (d) The guards again, as when bidden in the first 
scene (1. 103) of this act to remove Hermione, fail to obey. Is 
it for like reasons ? (c) Do you think any contrast is intended ? 
(</) In what attitude do you see Paulina (11. 63, 64) in her defi- 
ance of the King's men? (e) Do you understand how she can 
propose to leave the child ? (/) Which would engage your own 
attention chiefly, were the scene actual, at this moment, Paulina 
and the soldiers, or the child? 

5 (a) How does the action of the King intensify the situa- 
tion? (d) Why does the author wish the excitement and confu- 
sion enhanced? (c) Was or was not the offence implied in 
'Traitors' (1. 72) likely to be considered serious in Elizabethan 
times? (d) How do you think Antigonus looks when Paulina 
(11. 76-79) prevents his obedience to the King's command? Why 
does not he speak? (e) Why is not the King infuriated at his 
hesitation? 

6 (a) In whose power now is the child? Would Paulina be 
permitted, if she willed, to carry it back to its mother? (d) What 
has been accomplished thus far in this scene? (c) Does Paulina 
really intend to exasperate the King further? (d) Do you think 
the King's statement (11. 90, 91), which is not denied, a true one? 
(e) How can the King endure Paulina's talk (11. 97-108) about 
the child? (/) Can you see why the author makes her venture 
it? C^) Why does the King allow himself to be baffled thus 
long of his purpose ? 



344 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [II. iil 

7 {a) Where is the child this while? {b) Do you believe the 
King's threat (1. 114) means anything? (c) Are you concerned 
more, at this moment, for the child or for Paulina? (^) In the 
inevitable moment that is approaching, what do you think Paulina 
will do? Will she make good (11. 62, 63) her threat? {e) Was 
there any special point in Elizabethan times in (1. 121) 'on your 
allegiance'? {/) Is there any effect from using it in this case? 

8 {a) What, from PauHna's language (1. 125), do we know is 
taking place? {b) Is or is not change indicated (11. 127 and 130) 
in 'What needs these hands' * So, so'? {c) Why does she, 
in the last of these lines, say 'we'? {d) Why has she not 
resisted the effort to eject her? (e) Has her failure to do so 
made us note and feel the abandonment of the child more fully? 

9 (a) What further step has now been taken in this scene? 
{b) Does the King believe what he says (1. 131) to Antigonus 
about his wife's behaviour? {c) Why has he not proceeded 
against the child's life till now? {d) What would you be will- 
ing to have happen to the child, provided it be saved (11. 132- 
134) from the fate demanded by the King? (,?) How far do you 
suppose the author intended and expected this feeling? (/) Is 
there any justice, or was there, according to Elizabethan no- 
tions, in making a man responsible for the conduct of his wife? 
(g) Why does not the King first punish Paulina herself for her 
defiance and disrespect? 

10 (a) Has or has not the First Lord spoken before in this 
scene? {b) What qualities do you discern in him? {c) What 
motives prompt him to cross the King at this most dangerous 
moment? {d} Why does the King yield? {e) Why should he 
not now turn to some other of bis lords or servants? (/) Why 
does he extort in advance the oath ? 

1 1 {a) If Antigonus had not been henpecked, do you or do 
you not think he would have accepted such a commission? 
{b) Can you understand how he can repeat (11. 184, 185) his 
oath, yet declare that immediate death had been more merci- 
ful? Can you comprehend the nature, the consciousness of such 
a man? {c) Do you think the character unreal? {d) Do the 
words of Antigonus (11. 185-187) to the child make the moment 
harder or easier for us to bear? (<?) Does the announcement of 



II. Ill] THE WINTER'S TALE 345 

the messengers make or not make the exit of Antigonus with the 
child more practicable to ourselves? Why? 

12 (a) What is the motive (1. 197) of the messengers' has- 
tening? (d) Does it seem likely that they have hurried also 
before arriving at the shores of this island? (c) If the oracle is 
to determine the truth of the King's accusations, why does he 
summon a session? (d) How or why, while the Queen lives, 
is the King's heart (1. 206) a burthen to him? (e) Do you 
realise how far the author has advanced the plot, and how sternly 
he has controlled our sympathies, since the opening of this scene? 
Explain. 



ACT III 



SCENE I 



I (a) Why are these messengers made to be talking yet, even 
in Sicily, of their experiences at Delphi ? (d) Is there any differ- 
entiation attempted in the characters of the two men? (c) Do 
they or do they not know the purport of the response they 
carry ? (</) Do you think it fairly possible to question whether 
they have genuine despatches from Delphi or not? (<?) Do you 
think, from their call (1. 21) for fresh horses, that they have not 
yet started ? Is there Folio authority for the setting of the scenes ? 
(/) What is the purpose of this scene? Does it serve other pur- 
poses than one? 

SCENE 11 

1 (a) Do you take it that in Sicily the King usually opened 
the sessions in person? (d) Does he seem to show humiliation, 
or regret, or some other feeling? (c) Has the author presented 
Hermione and Paulina before? (d) Does the author seem to 
need Paulina here in the same manner as before? (^e) What 
points in character in the two women are there in common? 

2 (a) Does Hermione's strength, in her first paragraph of 
defence, seem or not seem unwomanly? Does or does not the 
diction seem masculine? (d) What qualities of greatness in sen- 
timent and spirit are apparent in it? (c) How much of imperial 
presuming, of undeference like Paulina's to the King's place and 
person, can you find in it? (d) Does Hermione seem changed 
in any way since her imprisonment? (e) Does Leontes rise in 
repose and dignity in (11. 55-58) his first interruption? Why? 
(/) How far does Hermione lose repose and dignity in attempt- 
ing to reply to the strictures of her husband ? 

3 (a) After Hermione resumes her defence do you discern 
further qualities in (11. 62-77) her speaking of Polyxenes and 
Camillo ? (d) Can you imagine what Leontes has to base (11. 78, 

346 



III. II] THE WINTER'S TALE 347 

79) his new innuendo on? (c) Can you explain why Hermione 
does not give way to vituperation and grief on his reference 
(1. 88) to her babe? (d) How can Leontes publicly prejudge 
(11. 91, 92) her guilty when he has promised a just and open 
trial? What feelings or forces compel him to act in this way? 
(e) What effect does his threatening have upon his wife? 
(/) What new sentiments and qualities do you find in (11. 92- 
117) her paragraph at large? 

4 (a) Is the First Lord officially entitled to speak in this 
court? (d) Is this the point in the proceedings where it was 
intended that the oracle should be introduced? (c) Can you 
explain why, in Hermione's reference (11. 120-124) to her father, 
there is no thought of appealing to him for justice or protection? 
((f) Do you understand that this paragraph is said in the hear- 
ing of the whole court? (e) What need here of a paragraph 
at all ? 

5 (a) What officer apparently administers the oath to Cleom- 
enes and Dion? (d) Is it dramatically well that we have seen 
them before? Why? {c) Is there seemingly any reason why 
Leontes is made, by (1. 132) his order, to participate in this 
formal moment of suspense? (d) Was it in accord with court 
etiquette for a group of lords like this one to break out, in antici- 
pation of their chief, in a demonstration? (e) Are they, or are 
they not, sure on which side the enthusiasm of the King will 
vent itself ? (/) Which seems the ampler feeling, Hermione's 
or the lords'? 

6 (a) What does the King mean (1. 142) by 'proceed'? 
(d) Can you explain how a servant could presume (1. 143) to 
interrupt the august sessions, summoned for the trial of a queen, 
by such an hysterical intrusion? (c) What is the meaning of 
'mere conceit and fear,' exactly what has caused the death of 
the prince? (d) How far are we to understand, from the King's 
acknowledgment (11. 147, 148), that he has been insincere all 
the while? (e) Why does not Hermione swoon immediately on 
knowledge of Mamillius's death? (/) Do you think it or not 
think it hard for Leontes to say (11. 150-154 and 154-173) what 
he says in the face of all the sessions and the lords? Why does 
not the author have him confess his villany in an aside? (g) To 
what extent are you changing your opinion of the man ? 



348 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [HI. ii 

7 (a) Does the language of Paulina, on reentering, seem 
unaffected and natural? Has her talk, the matter or the manner 
of it, at anytime seemed mannish, masculine? (d) How would 
you name her most sahent characteristics? (c) What effect is 
produced on us, as regards the King, by (11. 180-200) her invec- 
tives? (d) Should you or should you not think, from (11. 201- 
203) the manner of her reference, that Hermione is really dead? 
(e) Why does not Leontes say something? (/) What do you 
say of the climax (11. 208-215) to which she carries her assault? 

8 (a) What is the effect of having the King beg that she go 
on? (d) Does the First Lord appear (1. 218) to assume that the 
Queen is already dead? (c) How does he rank with the men 
of the play so far? (d) Can you account now for Paulina's 
tears, and her regret and asking for forgiveness ? (e) What 
is the effect of this as regards her, and as regards the King? 
(/) Do you think that her tears are in part (11. 231, 232) for the 
loss of her husband? (g) Why has Shakespeare put this in? 
(/i) How long ago apparently did she give her husband up? 

9 (a) Why should Leontes deprecate the pity of Paulina? 
(d) What do you say of the penance he proposes, is it manly? 
(c) What are now your feelings toward this man ? (d) Can you 
explain why he now wishes (11. 235, 243) to be led to the bodies 
of his queen and son by Paulina, and not by some one of his 
lords ? 

SCENE III 

I (a) Has Antigonus any nurse or maids of honour with him 
to care for the babe? (6) How has the business that he has in 
hand impressed apparently the crew? Do you think they know 
what child it is and what is the purpose fully of their voyage? 
(c) Why does not the mention (11. 12, 13) of the creatures of 
prey seem to stir Antigonus? (d) Do you think you can bear 
to see him expose the child? (e) Why does the author make 
Antigonus to have had (11. 17-37) the dream of the child's 
mother? Does it help him or us? (/) How do you explain 
his thinking the Queen guilty? He did not once think so. 
(§') What do you say of his manner of parting with the child ? 
How far is it consistent with his cruel, unwavering purpose ? 



III. in] THE WINTER'S TALE 349 

2 (a) What is meant (1. 47) by ' character ' ? (^) And 
what means 'these'? And how may they 'both breed thee, 
and still rest thine'? (t) Why does the author show us this 
man pursued, while the child stays safe? (d) Is it, or is it not, 
removed from our sight? Why? (e) Do you find this episode 
thus far tragical? Can you explain why? (/) Why does the 
author have Antigonus perish ? 

3 (a) Why does the text change to prose ? (d) How much 
contrast, dramatic and other, between the foregoing and the 
situation now begun? Would the shepherd, dressed as in Shake- 
speare's days, look more rustic or less than such a figure now? 
How would the court attire of Antigonus compare with the dress 
of the gentry in present times? (c) What time of the year has 
now been reached? (d) Does the shepherd seem drawn more 
by his fondness for children, or by the rich mantle and other 
articles that he sees? (e) How does the Clown look and act, 
when he appears, to call out (1. 83) his father's question? Do 
you think he was quaking? 

4 (a) Which story of marvel gets precedence of the other? 
Why? (3) What means (11. 130, 131) 'Let my sheep go,' and 
what state of mind does this measure to us? (c) Why does 
the shepherd wish to know (1. 138) *what' the stranger is? 
(d) Why is the author at pains to make us know that the body 
of Antigonus shall have burial? (<?) Can you explain why the 
last part of this scene is comedial, though it deals with death ? 



ACT IV 



SCENE I 



1 {a) What do you imagine was the make-up of the actor 
taking the part here of Father Time? {b) How far do you think 
the effect of his utterance, if the personification seemed com- 
plete, would approach the hallucination that the author wished? 
(<:) What means (1. 8) self-born hour? What may we say that 
each hour is usually born of? {d) From the mention (11. 22-25) 
of Florizel and Perdita, what may we infer this setting forward of 
the plot is for? 

2 («) How much of Father Time's paragraph is properly 
Chorus talk? (1!^) This scene has been pronounced spurious by 
certain critics. What signs of Shakespeare's hand and mind 
are discerned about it? (r) What marks and features seem to 
fix it below the standard of Shakespeare and of the play ? 

SCENE ir 

1 (a) Why is not Polyxenes willing that Camillo should at 
least go on a visit to Sicily? {h) How does it chance that the 
King's mind turns (11. 28, 29) to thoughts of his son so sud- 
denly? (^) Is it usual for a prince, leaving no knowledge of his 
whereabouts, to be absent from court three days? How far 
would it be possible to do this without resorting to disguises? 
(^) Whose wealth, in the King's suspicion (11. 44-46), appar- 
ently, has made the homely shepherd rich? (f) What has trans- 
formed the shepherd, from very nothing to an unspeakable estate, 
and how long since did the change, as it would seem, take place? 

2 {a) How can Camillo (1. 48) have heard of the shepherd's 
daughter? Is he perhaps {cf. 11. 36, 37) especially intimate with 
Florizel, or is he perhaps, his guardian? (^) What do you 
think of the King's plan of reaching a conversation with the 
shepherd? Why does he not summon the man to court? 

350 



IV. IV] THE WINTER'S TALE 35 1 

(c) Shakespeare evidently wants Camillo along (11. 57, 58) at 
the coming interview. Do you or do you not consider that he 
has, by having the King magnify a small matter, artistically pre- 
pared for it? (d) Why is the scene cast in prose? 

SCENE III 

1 (a) How is Autolycus dressed ? (d) Where was the family 
linen (1. 5) dried, in Shakespeare's day, after washing? (c) If 
the first three stanzas are intended to show the character of this 
fellow, what is the interruption (11. 13, 14) for? (d) What does 
Autolycus mean (11. 23, 24) about his 'traffic,' and the 'lesser 
linen'? (e) What does he mean (1. 27) by 'caparison,' and 
(11. 28, 29) 'gallows and knock are too powerful'? (/) Why 
does he cry out ' A prize ! ' ? 

2 (a) What does Autolycus mean (1. 36) by ' if the springe 
hold ' ? (/>) Why does not the Clown see Autolycus ? (c) What 
is to be judged, from (11. 34, 35) ' fifteen hundred shorn,' as 
to the extent of the shepherd's holdings ? (d) What tastes 
do you discern, in what the Clown says of his sister, that you 
would not look for in a shepherd's daughter ? What especially 
does he mean in (1. 43) ' she lays it on ' ? (e) What does the 
Clown do, as (1. 54) he makes his outcry ? 

3 (a) What does Autolycus get the Clown to do ? (^) What 
does he mean in (1. 74) ' O, good sir, tenderly, O'' ? {c) Why 
is he so unwilling that the Clown should think of giving him 
money? (d^ Whom is Autolycus describing (11. 91-93) as his 
assailant ? (if) Why is he disposed to decline (1. 123) further 
kindness from the Clown ? (/) Is it, or is it not, to the credit 
(11. 13, 14) of Prince Florizel that this man has been driven from 
the court ? 

SCENE IV 

I {a) What differences in imaginative and in practical quality 
between Florizel's and Perdita's first paragraphs to each other ? 
{b) What is Perdita's meaning in (11. 12-14) 'I should blush 
To see you so attired, sworn, I think. To show myself a glass' ? 
(c) How does the author manage to cover, with somewhat 
of plausibility, the rather remarkable ' extremes ' of dress that 



352 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [IV. iv 

we see here ? {d) What purpose is Florizel's next utterance 
(11. 14-16) made to serve ? (^) How far do you think Perdita, 
from her second paragraph, willing to advance her station ? 

2 {a) What 'difference' (1. 17) probably does Perdita sup- 
pose divides them ? {b) How has the Prince been able, in such 
proximity to the palace, to keep his identity from the shepherd 
folk he is now to meet ? {c) Why should Perdita, being, as 
she must suspect, beautiful, feel uncomfortable in any finery ? 
{d) What do you say of Florizel's way of reassuring her in his 
next paragraph .'' {e) How much does it weigh with Perdita ? 
if) Why is not his next argument of better potency ? 

3 (a) What makes Florizel sure (1. 53) of Perdita's ability 
to entertain ' sprightly ' ? {b) Why does the shepherd scold 
Perdita, at sight, for neglecting guests that are but just ap- 
proaching ? {c) In what sense, under the circumstances, is it 
true that she is (1. 62) retired ? {d) How do you suppose that 
Polyxenes and Camillo have disguised themselves ? (e) What 
is probably now the real age of the King ? 

4 {a) How does Perdita chance to think of flowers, in this 
moment of embarrassment, as a means of welcome ? {b) What 
is the meaning (1. 76) of 'grace and remembrance' ? (^) What 
does it signify that a shepherd girl of sixteen years greets 
guests like these with such a formula ? {d) What do you say 
of the excuse, after she is reminded of her slip, that she attempts? 
{e) Is there any point of character, moral or mental, in her ready 
acceptance (1. 97) of Polyxenes's argument ? (/") Why does 
she not yield to the obligation of the principle if it is true ? Is 
there other than a woman's reason ? 

5 {a) What do you say of the flowers that (11. 103-106) she 
next bestows, and the manner of bestowing ? {b) Which stands 
in subordination to the other, at this point, the shepherd girl to 
the King, or the opposite ? Why ? (<:) What would be the 
natural effect of such a compliment as (11. 109, no) Camillo's, 
pronounced by a veteran courtier, upon an unsophisticated 
country maid? {d) Whom does she now (1. 112) address? 
And what do you say of the mind, the vision that finds expres- 
sion for itself, even under embarrassment, in such lines (II. 115- 



IV. IV] THE WINTER'S TALE 353 

127) as follow ? (e) What is Perdita's meaning in 11. 134, 135, 
and what prompts her saying it ? 

6 («) After the girls from the neighbouring farms take 
(1. 132) the flowers, what becomes of them and of the swains ? 
(d) What do you say (11. 135-146) of FlorizePs compliment ? 
(c) What, of Perdita's response ? {d) Do you think, that, were 
Perdita aware that the King's son wished to make her Queen of 
Bohemia, she would consent? Why ? (e) What will be neces- 
sary to ensure the willingness that we can guess must be forth- 
coming ? (/) Do any of the guests overhear what they have 
been saying ? (g) Where do Florizel and Perdita (11. 153, 154) 
now go ? 

7 (a) How do we find that Perdita (11. 156-159 and 159-161) 
has impressed the visitors from the palace ? (d) What does 
Camillo mean (1. 161) by ' queen of curds and cream ' ? {c) Do 
you imagine there is any difference between the dancing of 
Perdita and her lover and of the rest ? (<f ) Why do you think 
the author introduces this dance ? (e) Does the shepherd talk 
(11. 168-176) of his daughter's lover and their loves as you would 
expect such a man to do ? Is there anything to be explained ? 
(/) What does the shepherd, in his last allusion (11. 178-180), 
mean ? 

8 (a) Why has the servant (1. 181) come to his master about 
the pedler ? (d) What of the popularity of such ballads as are 
now shown, and what of the importance of pedlers like this one, 
among English country-folk of Shakespeare's day ? (c) What 
is significant (1. 215) in Perdita's warning? (^/) Is the talk of 
Dorcas and Mopsa (11. 239-243) better or worse than might have 
been expected of shepherd girls like these ? Why is it given 
here ? (e) What point in having Perdita's brother upbraid them ? 

9 (a) Why is not Perdita interested in either the ballads or 
the finery ? (l>) Autolycus is a character supplied by Shake- 
speare to the borrowed plot ; can you see why it was needed ? 
(c) What do you take it that the shepherd and Polyxenes (11. 316, 
317) are in 'sad talk' over? What is the latter satisfying 
himself about ? (d) Does the dance of twelve Satyrs serve any 
other purpose than of dramatic embellishment ? (<?) How much 
has been thus far accomplished in this scene ? 

2 A 



354 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [IV. iv 

10 (a) Why does the diction change now (1. 353) to verse? 

(d) Do you find any sarcasm (II. 353-366) in the King's first 
words to his son? What seemingly does he intend? (c) Is 
there anything in Florizel's answer that would tend to incense 
his father? (d) What similarly in his next paragraph but one? 

(e) Do you think Camillo's feeling, from what (1. 389) he says, 
the same as the King's? (/) Is there anything to be noted 
(11. 390-393) in Perdita's answer? 

11 (a) Is this (11. 393-396) a ceremony of any moment? 
(Cf. p. 248.) (d) Does it seem (11. 403-412) from the King's 
ironical inquiries, and (11. 412-414) Florizel's reply, that the pres- 
ence of the groom's father was imperative at the ceremony of 
a precontract? (c) Show how the King's rage evolves itself. 
(d) Is he angered specifically by Perdita? (e) Why does he 
propose (1. 435) to destroy her beauty? What does his feeling 
show? (/) Why was it necessary for the author to get Polyxe- 
nes so angry here? (g) To do this, has he or has he not been 
obliged to do violence to the character? 

12 (a) What qualities do you find (11. 451-460) in Perdita's 
comments? (d) What should Florizel, if he does not intend 
(1. 456) to yield to Perdita's pleading, do? Is he in doubt? 
(c) Do you find any character symptoms in (11. 460, 461) what 
Camillo says to the shepherd? Does he think the shepherd to 
blame? (d) Why does not Perdita reply (11. 470-472) to her 
father? (e) Why does Perdita (I.474) 'look so upon' Florizel? 
And why does 'he ask, under the circumstances, the question ? 
(/) Do you think the author meant anything by the name 
Florizel? 

13 {a) Why did not Camillo withdraw with the King? 
(<^) What starts Perdita (1. 484) again ? (f) How far do you 
consider Camillo loyal to Polyxenes, who confides in him com- 
pletely, at this point? (</) What influences him most? {e) Show 
how the disobedience evolves a plan. (/") What need of the 
awkward drawing (1. 516) of Perdita aside? {g) Can you ex- 
plain how Camillo can treasonably aid the lovers? Does he 
propose to keep the King unaware of his conduct? 

14 {a) How do you account for Perdita's confident answer 
(11. 585-587) to Camillo, who should stand for the great world to 



IV. IV] THE WINTER'S TALE 355 

her? (6) Why, at last (11. 593, 594), should she blush at com- 
pliments from him? (c) Why again does the author resort 
(1. 604) to drawing his actors aside? (d) Why is it necessary 
that Autolycus should tell (11. 605-630) what he has been doing, 
and at such length ? (e) Does Camillo really think that letters 
from Leontes (1. 634) shall satisfy Polyxenes? (/) What 
clothing does Florizel exchange with Autolycus? 

15 {a) What does Autolycus (11. 699, 700) mean by 'more 
matter ' ? {b^ What at last have the shepherd and his son got 
through their heads? {c) What do they propose to do, and from 
what motive ? {d) What are the air and manner of Autolycus as 
(1. 736) he challenges the shepherd and the Clown? (e) What is 
he expecting to do? (/) Why does he not send these men on 
to the King, and win a larger reward than he can expect from the 
Prince? {g) Is it probable that Florizel wore a sword, that 
Autolycus now shows? (//) Of what use is the exchange of 
clothing to Florizel? 

16 {a) Why does the author have Autolycus (11. 753-763) ex- 
ploit his clothing and manners before the shepherds? {b) How 
does he get these men to go with him? (c) Why should the 
fellow, with court clothes on, wish (1. 856) to 'look upon' the 
hedges as he goes toward the wharf? {d^ What further use, 
since the festival, is Shakespeare putting Autolycus to? {e) Re- 
membering his gifts, and his career at court, do you find the 
character comprehensible? (/") How closely does Perdita seem 
now to belong to her old friends? Why? 

17 {a) What has been accomplished in this scene ? (Jf) Why 
did not the author divide it? 



ACT V 



SCENE I 



1 (a) Do you think it would be or not be an easy problem, 
were you writing the play, to introduce Leontes again ? (d) Has 
the author chosen an advantageous moment and situation ? Why? 
(c) What point in having Cleomenes and Dion the chief spokes- 
men here? (d) How do you find Leontes disposed toward the 
purpose they have in mind ? (e) How does Paulina chance to 
be here, among the men, with no companions of her own sex? 
(/) What is the effect of the manner and matter (11. 12-16) of 
her first paragraph ? 

2 (a) Which way go your sympathies in the argument be- 
tween Dion and Paulina? (d) What proof of the King's self- 
discipline and contrition in (11. 49-54) his words to PauHna? 
(c) What effect does the King's committing his future to Paulina's 
keeping have on our conception of his character? (d) Show 
how the author brings the King plausibly to such consent. 
(^) Would it have done as well to postpone, until (1. 84) the 
entry of the Prince, what has now been done in this scene? 
Why? 

3 (a) Why does the Gentleman stop (11. 86, 87) to speak of 
Perdita while giving the important news ? (d) How has Florizel's 
idea of pranking her up (IV. iv. 10) in court clothing assisted, 
materially, her entry at her father's court? What sort of a youth 
was it necessary to make Florizel, in order to bring this about? 
(c) Why should Paulina object (11. 95-103) to the Gentleman's 
enthusiasm? How does he chance to have celebrated Hermione 
in verse? (d) Why is Paulina made to administer Job's comfort 
(11. 1 1 5-1 18) to the King? (e) Is it clear why the King does 
not deal with her, in such moments, in a tone of more authority? 

4 (a) What do we now know (1. 126) was Mamillius's age at 
the opening of the play? (3) What do you say of the King's 

356 



V. II] THE WINTER'S TALE 357 

impressions of Florizel? (c) And what of his impressions of 
Perdita? Is it her beauty, or her presence, her dignity, that 
strikes him? (d) Do you think Perdita has ever reaUsed the 
difference between her own strength of mind and FlorizeFs? 
(e) Why does he say (1. 138) 'command,' — why should not 
'consent' have seemed a sufficient stretching of tlie truth? 
(/) Why does the author have Florizel tell so many valiant 
falsehoods concerning his 'wife' and her family to the King? 
(g) After accepting Perdita creditably as a princess, why is not 
Leontes startled and scandalised (11. 180-185) ^^ the amended 
news ? 

5 (a) Can you explain why Perdita has not shown sorrow for 
her father (1. 202) till now? (l>) How can Florizel (11. 208, 209) 
palter in answer to the very serious question of the King? 
(c) How is it (1. 215) with Perdita now? (d) What makes 
Leontes so strangely complaisant (11. 223, 224) toward a maid 
of very uncertain origin? (e) Is Paulina really afraid (11. 224- 
227) that Leontes will forget his years? (/) Who must, of the 
long separated kings, make the advances now ? 

SCENE II 

1 (a) Why are the reconciliation and the identification of 
Perdita's belongings not shown? (^) What of the effectiveness 
of the means the author uses in substitution for direct enactment? 
(t) Does Shakespeare mean that ballad-makers (1. 28) can say 
great meanings better than poets? What is the truth concerning 
the ballad elements in our literature? (rt^) What does the Third 
Gentleman's reference (1. 40) to 'the majesty of the creature' 
make clear to us? (e) Do you think that we have Shakespeare's 
or the Third Gentleman's estimate (1. 106-108) of Julio Romano's 
merits? (/) What word has stress in (1. 113) the first clause 
of the Second Gentleman's last paragraph ? 

2 (a) What means (11. 135, 136) 'blossoms of their fortune'? 
What has been done to them? (i) Do you think Shakespeare 
intends any satire upon the pretensions of rank in certain of the 
following paragraphs? (c) What of the Clown's attempt to re- 
form Autolycus? (d) In what sense does Autolycus insist upon 
taking the Clown's phrase, ' tall fellow of thy hands'? (e) What 
has been accomplished in this scene? 



358 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [V. iii 

SCENE III 

1 {a) Has the Clown secured admittance, for Autolycus 
among his 'kindred,' to the group who are here to see the 
picture? Is he himself or his father among the number? 
(^b) How does the author manage, at the outset, to make us 
understand that Leontes has not entered Paulina's house before? 
(f) Why was it well and necessary to do this? {d) What do 
you say of the strength and speed by whicli this scene proceeds 
to its main business ? {e) What do you say of the dramatic effect 
of the silence (1. 20), after the curtain is drawn, and of Paulina's 
caUing attention to this effect of what is seen? 

2 (rt) What feelings do you find (11. 23-29) in Leontes now ? 
{b) What do you say (11. 42-46) of Perdita's responsiveness? 
Why should she venture, with such people in such a place, to 
be so demonstrative? (c) Why does not Paulina allow her to 
kiss her mother's hand? {d) Why does Camillo (1. 49) speak 
of ' sorrow ' here ? (f ) What is Polyxenes' attitude or action in 
the next paragraph ? (/") Is Paulina surprised (11. 56-59) at the 
effect of her device? Why should she be? 

3 {a) Do you think Hermione moves of purpose, or be- 
cause she cannot control her agitation at her husband's tears? 
{b) What is the effect upon Leontes? (c) Do you conclude 
from his question (1. 63) that he suspects? {d) Does Polyxenes 
(11. 65, 66) see what he sees? {e) Why does Leontes say (1. 71) 
* twenty years ' ? (/) Do you think the rest of the company 
(11. 74-80) now share Leontes' and Paulina's understanding, or 
how nearly have they reached it? 

4 {a) Why does not (11. 84, 85) Perdita yet divine the situa- 
tion ? ((5) What was the feeling of the times concerning witch- 
craft? {c) What was the belief of James I touching such 
matters? {d) By the way, does there seem to be any possible 
suggestion of James I in the character of this Leontes? (<?) Why 
should the King forbid (11. 97, 98) conscientious scruples and 
obedience to them? 

5 {a) What of the dramatic interest (1. 98) of this moment, 
as the music is played softly? {b) Why does Hermione hesitate 
to descend? How long seemingly is the delay? (<:) What ap- 



V. Ill] THE WINTER'S TALE 359 

pears (1. 104) to have been the effect of her first movements? 
(d) To whom is 'start not' said, and to whom 'do not shun'? 
(f) What pause do the words of Paulina cover? (/) Which 
moves toward the other? 

6 (a) What is evident (1. in) as to Hermione's feeling? 

(d) Why does not the author have her speak at once? (c) Show 
how Paulina's presence is made useful in these situations, (c^) Do 
you think Perdita kneels (1. 1 19) a second time ? Why is it neces- 
sary that Hermione be asked to turn and regard her? (e) Has or 
has not Hermione known till now that Perdita is found? 

7 (a) What do you say of Hermione's language to her daugh- 
ter? Is it wanting in dignity and grace? (d) What do you 
imagine is Hermione's expression and pose as she says this? 
(c) Where is the climax of this scene? (d) Is it natural that 
Paulina should call attention (11. 130-135) to her lone condition? 

(e) What need for the comedial touch of matching her with 
Camillo? (/) How is the author managing the descent from his 
climax? 

8 (a) What prompts from Leontes his pleading (1. 147) 
'look upon my brother'? (i>) Why has Florizel (11. 149-151) 
been left unrecognised till now ? (c) Why is Paulina made to 
'lead' the company away? (d) Where is Camillo's place in 
it? ((?) What are your impressions concerning this close of the 
scene and of the play? 

9 (a) Do you think that Hermione understood what the part 
she was asked to play would involve? (d) Is this play a tragedy 
or a comedy? Why? (c) Who are the enabling characters in 
it? (d) What new ideas of strength in helplessness, and of the 
influences of a righteous will, have been brought home to you? 
(e) On what principles is this play based? (/") What seem to 
you to be the ultimate meanings, or lessons, in it? 



II 

ROMEO AND JULIET 
ACT I 

SCENE I 

1 (a) What word in the first line has stress ? (5) What is 
the real business of these men ? (c) How does the author ap- 
prize us dramatically which house they serve ? (d) How does 
he show their antipathy toward the rival family ? (e) Do you 
think, or not think, that he intends (11. 9 and 39, 40) to differen- 
tiate the two men in point of bravery ? 

2 (a) Why should it be assumed (1. 45) that either side 
should 'begin' ? (d) How can Sampson (1. 48) bite his thumb 
'at' the approaching ruffians ? (c) How does it help (1. 57) to 
deny what he has done ? (d) What are the final steps in the 
evolution of the quarrel ? (e) Why should the coming (1. 65) 
of one of Montague's kinsmen alter the case in the way it does ? 
(/) Would it have affected an Englishman in the same way ? 
What race differences are apparent here ? 

3 (a) What, up to the present point, seems the object of 
this scene ? (^) What do you know at once, from his attempt 
(1. 72) to part the fighters, is the nature of Benvolio ? (c) How 
does Tybalt express himself (1. 73) in thoti? (d) What kind 
of a man does he register himself, in his actions here, to be ? 
(^) Which house thus far seems superior ? Do the citizens 
(1. 81) seem to discriminate ? 

4 {a) How does Capulet chance (1. 81) to be in his gown, 
and svvordless ? {b) Whom does he command (11. 82) to 
fetch his sword ? (c) Why does Lady Capulet, in a moment of 
such excitement, call (1. 83) for a 'crutch'? {d) Why does 
Lady Montague (1. 87) hold back her husband ? {e) Do you 

360 



I. II] ROMEO AND JULIET 361 

judge from the Prince's rebuke (11. 89-93) that blood has been 
shed already ? (/) Do you take it that this is one (1. 96) of 
the three brawls, or were they something worse ? 

5 (a) What do you say of the language used by the Prince 
in dealing with the offenders ? Is the stilted, sophomoric quality 
intended to characterise the Prince, or is it due to the author's 
faults of style ? (d) Is this Prince an old man ? (c) What 
is the use of showing, at such pains, the savagery of an Italian 
street fight ? (d) What need of marks of the Italian nature 
observed in it? (e) How differently would English offenders 
against the peace and an English magistrate have behaved ? 

6 (a) What is clear (11. 125-132) as to Romeo's and Ben- 
volio's habits and disposition ? Are they dissipated, roystering 
young men ? (d) What are your impressions (11. 137-148, 152- 
161) of Montague ? Is he a coarse man ? Does he ever read ? 

(c) Do you judge Romeo (11. 137-146) like him ? (d) Do you 
find, or not find, marks of effeminacy in either ? ((?) If these 
were Englishmen, what different conclusions of character would 
you form ? 

7 (a) Do you understand that Romeo (1. 166) is not aware 
of the time of day, or that he has just seen (1. 168) his father ? 
What is the author trying to tell us by these means ? (d) What 
further hints and signs (11. 177-189) in Romeo's first long para- 
graph ? (c) Does this man seem really in love ? Why ? 

(d) Why should he assume (11. 214-220) that his lady-love 
cannot be won ? (e) Do you think him unadvised concerning 
women ? (/) Do you think him diffident, unused to best 
Verona society ? (^) Can you explain why this young man, 
exquisitely endowed, and with every privilege, finds life so heavy? 
(/i) Is there anything typically Itahan in the case? 

SCENE II 

I (a) What does Paris seem to have been saying that Capulet 
now answers by ' but ' ? (d) Why should Capulet accept, as he 
does (1. 3) personally, the responsibility for disturbances arising, 
like the last one, without his knowledge or consent ? (c) What of 
Paris's interest in the feud, as shown ( 1. 6) by ' now ' ? (d) What 
does Capulet mean (1. 8) by 'a stranger in the world'? (e) Do 



362 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [I. il 

you think Paris wholly acceptable to Capulet? (/) What seems 
to be lacking in him as a lover ? 

2 (a) How is Capulet different, in modes of thought and 
speech, from Montague? Which is more matter-of-fact and 
native, which has achieved more refinement? (1^) What do you 
say of the author's means of getting rid of Paris and Capulet ? 

(c) How should Capulet have given the list to a servant who 
cannot read? And why should not the servant confess himself 
unequal to the commission? (d) How is the new conversation 
of Benvolio and Romeo related to their last dialogue? Have 
they separated since? (e) Which was before subordinated to 
the other? (/) Which is subordinated now? 

3 (a) How does Romeo chance (1. 58) to address the servant? 

(d) Was he bound by customs of the time to notice him ? What 
would Tybalt probably, in Romeo's place, have done? (c) How 
does it happen that it is Romeo and not Benvolio who helps the 
servant? (d) Why does not Romeo at once (11. 60, 64) assist 
the fellow? (e) Are we to infer anything from the fact that 
Paris's name is not included in the list? 

4 (a) Why is the servant now (11. 76, 78, 80) so evasive to 
the gentleman who has befriended him ? (d) Why does he invite 
Romeo (11. 84, 85) after all? (c) Is it plausible that he should 
not know whom he is talking with? (d) When and how does 
Benvolio seem to have learned (1. 88) who is Romeo's flame? 

(e) How was it possible for Romeo to think of entering the home 
of his father's foe? (/) What is his motive for so doing? 
(^) What is the object of this scene? 

SCENE in 

I (a) Why does the author make Juliet enter to her mother 
and the Nurse instead of discovering her to us with them? 
(d) Why should not Juliet have appeared (1. 3) at the first call? 
(^) Why should not the mother, instead of the Nurse, answer (1. 6) 
her first inquiry? (d) What makes Lady Capulet dismiss and 
recall the Nurse? (<?) Can you explain Juliet's reticence and dis- 
tantness? Why should she not have been here with her mother 
and the Nurse all the while? 



I. v] ROMEO AND JULIET 363 

2 (a) How is it that the Nurse can forestall the intended con- 
versation with such matters as she tells? (d) What kind of a 
woman do you see she is ? (c) How far were social conditions 
different in Italy, with reference (1. 61) to the Nurse's wish, from 
now with us? (d) Can you explain why Juliet does not speak? 
(e) What subordination is apparent after (1. 65) the mother's 
question? 

3 (a) Do you think Juliet's response (1. 66) sincere ? (d) How 
does Lady Capulet's argument (11. 69-73) strike you? Do you 
think such effect intended? (c) Were the older children spoken 
of (ii. 14) by Capulet, hers? (d) How much older than she 
seems Capulet? (e) Was it usual for Italian mothers, intending 
marriages, to ask such questions as the one (1. 79) now ventured? 
(/) Why, in Lady Capulet's paragraph, the rhymed lines? 
(^) What do you find more, in Juliet's response, dutifulness or 
inclination? (/i) With such a mother, and such a Nurse, what 
was to be expected? 

SCENE IV 

1 (a) In the stage direction Mercutio has displaced Benvolio, 
standing next the hero. What do you infer from this ? (d) Who 
of the newcomers here, according (ii. 67-74) to the list, may 
have been invited? (c) Does Romeo seem the same as before? 

(d) Which is nearer his mind and temperament, Benvolio or 
Mercutio? (e) What, up to 1. 53, are your impressions of this 
company ? 

2 (a) What do you say of the following paragraph of Mer- 
cutio, as part of the running conversation? (^) What impres- 
sions, as respects Mercutio, does it make upon you? (c) Do you 
find Romeo subordinated by it to Mercutio? (d) Is Benvolio 
shown here, in your judgment, at the true level of his mind? 

(e) What conception of Romeo comes to you from his last para- 
graph ? (/) What seems to be the purpose of this scene ? 

SCENE V 

I (a) What is the effect of the stress on Where's, in the first 
line? {b) What is the entertainment to which Capulet's guests 
are bidden? {c) Why this opening talk and bustle between the 



364 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [I. v 

servants given ? {d) What Guests and Maskers (1. 17) doCapulet 
and his daughter 'meet'? (<?) What are your impressions of 
Capulet here as a host? (/) What seems un-English in the 
talk and manners of the man ? 

2 («) Why is Lady Capulet not mentioned? {b) What does 
Romeo mean by (1. 47) 'hangs upon the cheek of night'? 
(c) What in Juliet that we have seen impresses him? {d) Do 
you understand Romeo now? (^) Do you suppose that Tybalt 
(1. 56) recognises only the voice of Romeo, and not his meaning? 
(/) Can you explain why Capulet (1. 67) is not incensed at 
Romeo? 

3 (a) Is the report of Romeo (1. 70) in Verona likely to be 
correct? (^b) How do you explain Capulet's readiness to echo 
such things of an enemy? {c) How is it to be explained (1. 78) 
that Tybalt insists? {d) What word in 1. 81 has stress? 
(^) What point in having Tybalt thus assume the enmity of the 
family toward Romeo? (/") What point in having Tybalt 
withdraw from the house in anger? {g) Does Paris seem to 
have made use of his invitation? Why? 

4 {a) What point in having the foregoing occur before we 
hear Romeo's words to Juliet? (b) How do you like his manner 
of addressing her? Is there any character in it, or only gallantry? 
(<:) Does it seem that Juliet understands the voice, the words, the 
worship, as we understand them ? {d) Why does Juliet say (1. 99) 
'pilgrim' and (1. 102) 'palmer'? Is Romeo's mask perhaps 
of such a sort? What kind of a mask (iv. 32) is Mercutio wear- 
ing? (tf) What is the 'shrine' (I. 96) that Romeo professes to 
profane? (/") Why should Juliet deprecate the proposed kiss 
upon her hand, a common courtesy of the time? 

5 (a) How far do you think Juliet intends to invite (1. 107) 
what follows ? ((5) What do you say of Romeo's diffidence, or 
far-off worship, that he seemed to feel toward Rosaline ? (^) Is 
it probable that Rosaline discerned Romeo ? {d) Why does the 
Nurse address Romeo (1. 114) as 'bachelor'? {e) Why does 
she say, thus, to a stranger (11. 118, 119), that Juliet shall inherit 
wealth ? 

6 {a) Why does Romeo feel and say (1. 120) that his life is 
his foe's debt ? Why does he not propose to drop Juliet forth- 



I. V] ROMEO AND JULIET 365 

with from his thought ? {b) What prompts the remark (1. 121) 
of BenvoHo ? {c) For whom was (1. 124) the 'trifling, foolish 
banquet' intended ? {d) To what does Capulet (1. 125) respond 
by asking, ' Is it e'en so ' ? {e) Why does not Juliet ask directly 
(1. 134) who the stranger is ? (/") Why should she recognise 
the possibility of his being a married man, since he has not 
behaved like one ? 

7 {a) Why does the Nurse (1. 139) say 'your' instead of 
'our'? {b) What means (1. 140) 'only hate'? {c) How 
does this help the meaning of 'only love'? (d) What means 
(1. 142) 'prodigious birth'? {e) How can one who has never 
been known personally, or been even seen before, be a ' loathed 
enemy'? (/") Why is Juliet's fibbing answer (1. 144) made 
known to us? {g) What has been accomplished in this scene? 
(/^) Why is the First Act brought to its conclusion here? 



ACT 11 



SCENE I 



1 (a) Does the Chorus prefixed to this act seem to hasten or 
retard the events anticipated ? {b) Where are the ' five or six 
Maskers,' who accompanied Romeo and his friends hither? 
(f) How has Romeo managed to be apart from Mercutio and 
Benvolio? {d) Why has he not told them of his new passion, 
and dismissed them? (e) Does he seem Hke an unpractical, 
irresolute dreamer, as at the beginning of the play? (/) De- 
velop fully the author's evident meaning here. 

2 (a) Is it to be taken as characteristic of Benvolio that it 
(I. 5) comes over him where Romeo is? {b) What is the effect 
on us of Mercutio proposing and attempting (1. 6) to 'conjure' 
too? Why cannot he take his friend more seriously? (c) Why 
does not this closing of Romeo's intimacy with his friends belong 
to the First Act? {d) Is there any subordination, in this situ- 
ation, of them to him or him to them? {e) How is Benvolio 
contrasted with Mercutio here? 

SCENE II 

1 {a) What has been Romeo's impulse or aim in scaling the 
enclosure of the hated Capulets? (^b) How different would be 
the behaviour of an Anglo-Saxon Romeo? {c) How does Juliet 
chance to appear at the very window he approaches? {d) What 
do you say of Romeo's soliloquy? What qualities of mind and 
spirit are palpably in evidence ? {e) How does he become surer 
(1. 10) that it is Juliet who has appeared? (/") What is signified 
and measured to us in the long silence before she sighs? 

2 («) Does Romeo say his second paragraph aloud ? 
{b) What is the burden of the words (11. 33-36) that we now 
hear Juliet say? (c) Does or does not Romeo, hearing his 
name, understand fully what she has said? {d) What discovery 
(11. 38, 39) is Juliet making? {e) What is the sense (1. 48) of 
'for'? What word in the line has stress? (/") Does Romeo, 
in his answer (11. 49-51), seem to understand her dismay? 

366 



II. II] ROMEO AND JULIET 367 

3 (a) Does Juliet recognise (11. 52, 53), apparently, who has 
addressed her? (d) What do you say of (11. 53-57) Romeo's 
response? (c) In what mood, with what feeling, does she utter 
the first two lines of her response? (d) In what mood, with 
what feeling, does she say (1. 60) the last sentence in it ? 
(e) What different shape does Juliet's dismay (11. 62-65) "ow 
take? (/) Masculine minds are supposed to be matter-of-fact 
and practical, feminine minds imaginative. Does the dialogue 
now beginning illustrate? Explain. 

4 (a) What marvel (1. 79) is in Juliet's mind? Is it natural? 
(d) While Juliet is asking these matter-of-fact questions, what is 
going on in her mind besides and chiefly? Do you think she 
appreciates Romeo's answer (11. 80-84) to her last question? 
(c) Do you think she has grounds, as she understands them, in 
her consciousness, for what (11. 85-106) she now says? Or does 
she do all recklessly, from the fascinating wish to keep this 
earliest lover ? (d) Do you find her shallow, silly in her 
philosophy, or the reverse? Why? (^) What other qualities 
are to be discerned in the things she says? 

5 (a) What feeling is shown and emphasised (1. 100) in 
'gentleman'? (d) What makes Romeo similarly address Juliet 
(1. 107) by 'lady ' ? (c) What do you think would be the effect 
of such confidence upon an unworthy nature? (d) Why does 
not Juliet recognise the efforts that Romeo makes to assure her? 
Why has she no anxiety at all? (e) What feeUng (11. 1 16-124) 
now asserts itself? (/) Why is Romeo (1. 125) so far from 
sharing the same feeling? 

6 (a) How fully is Juliet (1. 130) understood by Romeo? 
(^) What do you say of her answer to this last question? Is it 
maidenly, or overbold? (c) Do you think Juliet has begun to 
realise, as yet, that Romeo must not seek another interview of 
this kind? (d) Why does the author have the Nurse call Juliet 
away? (e) How do you think Juliet says (1. 137) '■sweet Mon- 
tague'? (/) What do you find in the circumstance of her 
taking leave of him with these words? 

7 {a) How much do you think Romeo appreciates of all this? 
{b) What has come into Juliet's mind (11. 142-148) since she 
said (1. 120) 'good night'? {c) Why is the Nurse made 



368 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [II. ii 

(1. 149) to call Juliet again? {d) What do you find stronger 
(1. 150) in Juliet, her caution or her faith? {e) Why has not Romeo 
said anything as to a practical outcome of their attachment? 
Does he not realise the situation? (/") Is it, or is it not, credible 
that a girl of fourteen, who has never acted for herself, should be 
equal to such an exigency? (^) How would an Anglo-Saxon 
Juliet have done? 

8 (a) Why should not Romeo expect (11. 156-158) and be 
ready, after such felicity, to withdraw? {b') How differently 
would an Anglo-Saxon Romeo behave? (r) How does Juliet 
now (1. 159) call Romeo, and what is the need of doing it in 
such a way? (^d) What is the quality, now (11. 159-164), of 
Juliet's ideas and language? (^) Why does Juliet call her lover 
again (1. 168) by name, after he is returned and waiting? 
(/) Why has she called him back? And why (1. 171) has she 
forgotten ? 

9 {a) Where has this scene its climax? {b) What has been 
accomplished in it? {c) Which of the twain must withdraw and 
close the scene? {d) What instincts and motives bring this 
about? {e) Does Romeo keep, in the concluding conversation, 
to his imaginative heights ? (/) Does Juliet keep to her practical, 
matter-of-fact level? (^g) How do you explain? 

SCENE in 

1 {a) Why does the author make Friar Laurence tell (1. i) 
the time of the scene? (b) Why is the scene in rhyme? (c) Of 
what rank, in the society of the time, has the Friar come? 
(«?) What impressions of the man, and of his mind, do you form 
from the opening paragraph ? {e) Do you, or do you not, judge, 
from (11. 31-42) the Friar's greeting, that he knows Romeo well 
and is fond of him ? Show what is involved in this. 

2 {a) Does Romeo's explanation (11. 49-54), or the manner 
of it, argue especial qualities in the hero's mind, and if such, what? 
{b) What is the effect of the Friar's scolding (11. 65-80) upon 
us? (c) Has Romeo deserved it? {d) What does the Friar 
mean (1. 90) by one respect? {e) If the houses are reconciled, 
will it, or will it not, profit the Friar or his chapter? (/') Was 
there, or was there not, rivalry between the Franciscan and the 
Benedictine orders in his day? 



II. V] ROMEO AND JULIET 369 

SCENE IV 

1 (a) What is the time of this scene? (6) Where do you 
think Romeo will keep himself while he awaits Juliet's messenger? 
(c) What is Mercutio's implication (1. 10) respecting the chal- 
lenge? (d) Why should Benvolio (1. 11) have a different con- 
viction? (e) Which character is subordinated here, and how? 

2 (a) How far does Romeo seem the same, with his two 
friends, as when they were last together? (d) What subordi- 
nation, in the new situation, is brought about, and how ? (c) Does 
Romeo recognise (1. 107) who are approaching ? (d) Why 
has Peter accompanied the Nurse? (e) Why should the Nurse, 
before accosting the object of her search, ask for her fan ? What 
is she, like some younger Italian women, probably wearing (cf. 
Hamlet, II. 445-447) to increase her height ? 

3 {a) Why has the author made Mercutio talk coarsely, and 
Romeo (11. 121, 122) rebuke his friend? {h) Can you explain 
why the Nurse, in (1. 124) inquiring for Romeo, addresses, after 
what has just happened, all three? (<:) What do Benvolio 
and Mercutio infer is the Nurse's message, and from whom? 
(^) What is the effect of Mercutio's conduct on our feelings 
toward him, and toward Romeo? {e) What do you say of the 
Nurse's plea (11. 172-181) for her mistress? Is she truly anxious? 
(/■) What more remarkable manifestation of her intelligence and 
character follows? (^) Why has the author introduced these 
lines? 

4 {a) How is it that Romeo assumes (I. 192) that Juliet will 
come for shrift to Friar Laurence rather than elsewhere? 
{b) Why does the Nurse refuse (1. 194), and then accept (1. 197), 
Romeo's coin? What is the position of the Nurse in the Capulet 
household? {c) Does the Nurse seem to interest Romeo (11. 
213-219) by what she says of Paris? {d^ Why is the Nurse's 
ignorance of the alphabet brought out? {e) Why does she 
make Peter (1. 232) go before? 

SCENE V 

I {a) What can have caused this three hours' delay ? {p) Why 
is Juliet waiting in the 'orchard'? {c) Why is this opening 
2 B 



370 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [II. v 

paragraph given? (rf) What is Juliet's natural inference from 
the unreadiness of the Nurse to answer anything? (e) Why is 
she unready and evasive? (/) What does the author bring out 
by this means? 

2 {a) How do you account for the Nurse's absurd talk (11. 38- 
45) about Romeo? (i) Why does she break off (11. 58, 59) and 
ask, 'Where's your mother '? (c) Whose leave (1. 69) has Juliet 
been obliged to get, and why? (d) Why does the Nurse persist 
in withholding (1. 71) the details that Juliet so desires to know? 
(e) What do you say (1. 72) of the effect of the Nurse's words? 
(/) What of the spirit that she shows in this last paragraph? 
(g) Why did not Shakespeare have the lovers arrange, in the 
second scene, for their meeting at Friar Laurence's cell, and save 
the scenes between? 

SCENE VI 

1 (a) Why is it well to have Friar Laurence have and express 
misgivings over the proposed union? (d) Why has the author 
made Juliet enter to Romeo and the friar? (c) Show how he 
helps Juliet, in the sentences she is made to utter, in this hard 
situation, (d) What does the friar mean by his answer (1. 22) 
to her greeting? 

2 (a) Why is Romeo, in his two paragraphs, made to express 
so much affection? (d) Would it not have been better had Juliet 
expressed less? (c) Where does the friar (1. 35) conduct the 
lovers? (d) Why does Shakespeare not show the marriage 
ceremony? (e) What need of presenting the lovers together in 
the friar's cell? 



ACT III 



SCENE I 



1 (a) Show how Benvolio is in character here, (d) Do you 
think Mercutio has or has not reason for implying that it is Ben- 
volio and not himself who is inclined to quarrels? Why is he 
made to talk so? (c) Do you think Benvolio or Mercutio more 
critical? (d) What is now the time of day? (e) Has Romeo 
yet seen Tybalt's challenge? Why? 

2 (a) To whom does Tybalt say (1. 40), 'Follow me close,' 
and why? (d) Has Mercutio any especial reason for trying to 
provoke Tybalt? (c) Why is Benvolio concerned that (1. 56) 
'all eyes gaze' on them? (d) What proof (1. 59) of Tybalt's 
anxiety to see Romeo? (e) What race differences made apparent 
here? 

3 (a) What does Tybalt expect will be the effect (11. 63, 64) 
of his words on Romeo? (fi) Were it not for Romeo's new love 
for the Capulets, would or would not Tybalt have been disap- 
pointed? (c) If this were an Anglo-Saxon Romeo, would the 
answer to Tybalt be altered from (11. 65-68) what we find? 
(d) What is the point of Tybalt's insolence (1. 69) in 'boy'? 
Which is the older of these two? (e) What feelings apparent 
(II. 71-75) in Romeo's rejoinder? (/) What do you say of this 
paragraph? How far is it the utterance of the lover rather than 
of the gentleman? 

4 (a) How do you think Mercutio interprets Romeo's answers 
and forbearance? (d) How is Tybalt minded to fight Mercutio 
now (1. 86), having declined before? (c) Why is Romeo still 
(1. 87) so unaroused and gentle? And why is not Benvolio's 
voice also heard in protest? (d) How is it that Romeo is now 
(II. 89-93) so loud and potent? (e) Why does he say 'Hold 
Tybalt ! good Mercutio'? 

5 (a) Why does Tybalt disappear so suddenly? (d) Why 
does not this party think of flight? {c) Where do you think the 

371 



372 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [HI. I 

stress in Benvolio's question (1. 95) falls? Has Benvolio helped 
Romeo beat down their swords? (d) What do you say of this 
mortal hurt of Mercutio's? Is it due to an ordinary thrust? 
What was the spirit of the man who made it ? (e) Why does 
not Mercutio tell Romeo (11. 107, 108) sooner, and more petulantly, 
how the hit was made ? 

6 (a) What do you say(l. 109) of Romeo's answer? (6) Why 
is it Benvolio, and not Romeo, who is asked to help? (c) How 
far do you find your sympathy aroused for Mercutio? (d) Why 
is Romeo made (11. 1 14-120) to remark in a soliloquy about his 
fate? (e) Why is the death of Mercutio so immediate? 

7 (a) How far are Romeo's feelings changed (11. 124, 125) 
by (11. 1 21-123) Benvolio's words? (d) Can you see the reason 
why Tybalt ventures to come back ? (<:) What must be the air, 
the manner (1. 126) that he shows? (d) Can you explain the 
sudden change in Romeo's feeling? (e) How far would an 
Anglo-Saxon Romeo change like this? 

8 (a) What does Romeo mean (1. 130) by 'take the villain 
back again'? Is this like Romeo? (d) What do you say of 
the rest of this paragraph to Tybalt? Are you disappointed in 
your hero? (<;) What effect does Tybalt's answer (11. 135, 136) 
make on you? (d) Do you find Romeo inclined to brag? 
(^) How long does the bout last? (/) What does this show 
as to the resources of the combatants? (g) Which is the older 
and heavier and more practised champion apparently? 

9 {a) Why has not Benvolio done something, or proposed to 
do something, to avenge his friend? (d) Why have not the 
citizens appeared already? (c) Why does Romeo hesitate, and 
need repeated exhortation, to flee? (d) What does Romeo 
mean (1. 141) in 'I am fortune's fool'? (e) What are your 
feelings toward him now? 

10 (a) Why does Benvolio remain? (d) Why does the First 
Citizen (11. 144, 145) arrest Benvolio for answering his question? 
(c) Can you see any reason why the author should wish to set us 
more completely (11. 153, 154) against Lady Capulet? (d) Do 
we learn anything further, from (11. 158, 179) Benvolio's account, 
about the duel between Tybalt and Romeo? {e) Does Benvolio, 



III. II] ROMEO AND JULIET 373 

in his report, favour his friend? Why could he (11. 177, 178) not 
* draw to part them ' ? 

1 1 (a) Why does not Romeo's mother make some counter- 
plea against (11. 185, 186) Lady Capulet's request for vengeance? 
(<J) Why should the Prince (11. 191, 192) change his mind when 
Montague speaks? {c) What do you think of the justice of 
Romeo's sentence? (d) How are your impressions now rel- 
atively of Mercutio's and Romeo's powers? (e) Have you had 
the same estimate from the first? (/) For what was Mercutio 
chiefly needed? (g) Why was he made so brilliant? (//) What 
use in special and at large has the author made of Benvolio? 
(/) Does he appear again ? 

SCENE II 

I (a) What is the time of this scene? (d) How long is it 
since we saw Juliet here before? (c) Do you or do you not con- 
clude that her having been shown here in the orchard before has 
anything to do with her being presented, waiting for Romeo, 
now? (^d) How far and in what way do you find your impres- 
sions of Juliet altered from such as were formed in the second 
scene of the last act? (e) What has taught Juliet so much since 
her mother talked to her of Paris ? 

2 (a) What of the language, the imagery, of this opening 
paragraph? (5) In this intensest activity of her imagination, 
how far do you find the objective, Imogen-like qualities observed 
in former scenes? (c) Do you or do you not find anything in 
phraseormannersuggestiveof a masculine personality? (d) How 
differently would an Anglo-Saxon Juliet have soliloquised ? (i?) Do 
you or do you not here find anything unmaidenly and gross? 

3 (a) What signifies the sombre hues and tints that Juliet's 
imagination uses, and the absence, for an Italian mind like hers, 
of intense, warm colours ? (d) Of what character are the strong 
ideas and terms in (11. 10-21) the middle part of the paragraph? 
(c) How well does it appear that Juliet understands herself at 
this interesting moment? (d) Why do you suppose Shakespeare 
has made us overhear this paragraph, or rather has made her utter 
it on purpose for us to overhear? (e) What do you say of the 
means used to stop the soliloquy ? (/) What dramatic need of 



374 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [HI. ii 

having the Nurse bring the rope-ladder and throw it down in our 
sight? 

4 {a) Why does the author repeat, in the lines following, the 
part of the Nurse in the fifth scene of the last act ? {b) If his 
wish be, as seems, to make Juliet believe that her husband is 
dead, what must be his artistic motive ? Is it for eifect upon 
Juliet or ourselves ? {c) Is the Nurse, in your opinion, more 
than willing, does she intend, to give Juhet pain ? {d) Do you 
take it that Tybalt, as (1. 6i) she says, has been good to the 
Nurse ? {e) Can you see reasons why (1. 66) Juliet should 
have been fond of such a cousin ? 

5 {a) How must Juliet have conceived of Tybalt (1. 71) as 
slain by Romeo ? {b) How can you account for (11. 73-85) 
what she says explaining it ? {c) Why does the Nurse so 
quickly (11. 85-90) turn to denunciation ? {d) What eifect of 
this, and especially of her last words, on Juliet ? Can you 
explain ? (<?) How fully does she now realise (11. 101-107) how 
the killing happened ? 

6 {a) How is it that Juliet did not realise (1. 108) the 
Nurse's word concerning Romeo ? (^) Why does she think, from 
' banished,' that Romeo is already gone ? {c) Why does she 
now (1. 127) ask for her father and her mother ? {d) Why 
does she assume (11. 130-137), concerning her fate, the worst ? 
(^) What, after all the pain she has caused Juliet, starts up the 
Nurse ? (/") Can you account for Juliet's thinking (1. 142) to 
send the ring ? 

SCENE III 

1 {a) Where is Romeo when the Friar (1. i) summons him 
to come forth ? (1^) What does this scene connect with ? How 
much time has elapsed ? (^) How is it that the Friar now tells 
(1. 11) what the sentence is, Romeo not knowing ? {d^ Why 
is it that Romeo prefers death to banishment ? Is he in his 
right mind ? How would an Anglo-Saxon Romeo feel ? 
{e) Which of the two is subordinated here, and how ? 

2 {a) What, at the knocking (1. 71), gives the Friar concern ? 
{b) What do the quick repeated knockings show as to the new- 
comer's state of mind ? (c) Why does Romeo assume (11. 94- 



III. v] ROMEO AND JULIET 375 

98) that Juliefs love has ceased because of Tybalt's death ? 
(^) How should the Friar know more (11. 117 and 135) of 
lovers' philosophy than Romeo .'' {e) Whom does the author 
make responsible for Romeo's visit to his wife ? Why does 
Shakespeare do this .'' 

3 (a) Why has the author made, on both sides, such ado 
before allowing Romeo to go to Juliet's chamber ? Is it for 
their sake or for ours ? (d) What is the Friar's motive? Why 
does he wish to make the marriage irrevocable ? (c) Why did 
not the Nurse, at the outset, give Romeo the ring ? (d) Why 
does the author have the Nurse withdraw in advance of Romeo 
and not with him ? (e) Do you think the Friar's plan (11. 150- 
154) practicable and wise ? (/) Who are meant (1. 150) by 
* we ' ? (g) Will Romeo's absence, apparently, when the 
marriage is proclaimed, assist or hinder the reconciliation of the 
houses ? 

SCENE rv 

1 (a) Why should Paris have come to the home of the Capu- 
lets, at such a time, on business of his own ? (d) Is it signifi- 
cant that, at this visit, Lady Capulet also is present ? (c) Do 
you take it that Paris has been pressing his suit for Juliet, to her 
father, since (I. ii) we saw him last ? (d) How long do you 
infer (1. 7) he has at this time stayed ? (e) What makes Capu- 
let (11. 12, 13) think it best now to accede ? 

2 (a) Does it seem that Lady Capulet has spoken to Juliet, 
since (I. iii) their first talk, of Paris's suit ? (d) Why does the 
author make Capulet (1. 15) in such haste to have Juliet ap- 
proached ? (c) How does Shakespeare make (11. 19-28) this 
scandalous speed plausible ? (d) How well do you like Paris's 
opinion (1. 29) of the plan ? (e) What further characterisation 
of Capulet is to be found in this scene ? (/) Why do we not 
hear more, in this conference with Paris, from Lady Capulet ? 
(g) What additional light is thrown upon the character of 
Juliet's mother in this scene ? 

SCENE V 

I (a) Did Lady Capulet go, as bidden, to Juliet's chamber 
before she went to bed ? Why ? (d) How far is Juliet's first 



3/6 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [IH. v 

paragraph marked with her former and usual matter-of-fact qual- 
ity, and how far Romeo's first, with the opposite ? (c) What 
Italianism does Shakespeare venture in 1. 12 ? Where, in 
scenes preceding, has he once at least borrowed the same idiom ? 
(d) Are you not surprised that Juliet should soberly speak 
(11. 13-16) of the daybreak in the way she does r How do you 
explain ? (e) What do you say of Romeo's answering para- 
graph ? Is what is said genuinely meant ? (/) How far 
might an Anglo-Saxon Romeo be expected to feel and say the 
like? 

2 (a) What words in 1. 25 have stress ? (i>) What has 
caused (1. 26) the change in Juliet ? Does the remainder 
of the paragraph sound like her new or her former self ? 

(c) Why should the Nurse (1. 37) say < Madam'? (d) What 
does Juliet (1. 41), after she hears the Nurse's warning, do ? 
(1?) Is it according to nature, or is it not, that Juliet does not 
respond (1. 42) to Romeo's farewell ? Where is she when he 
is next addressed ? (/) Is the parting, on Romeo's side, in 
accord with his masculine nature ? 

3 (a) Why is not Romeo inclined now, as at other times 
(cf. I. iv. 106-111), to look with Juliet (1. 54) on the dark side 
of their future ? In what points are her nature and his alike ? 

(d) How far does Romeo seem really (11. 58, 59) to catch Juliet's 
mood ? (c) What hint as to companionship with her mother 
is Juliet (1. 67) made to give us ? Can you account for such 
relations between a mother and her only child ? (d) When did 
Juliet's tears begin ? (1?) Why does she resort (1. 69) to fibbing ? 

4 (a) Why should Lady Capulet assume (1. 70), with no 
evidence and without preliminaries, such a cause for her daugh- 
ter's weeping ? (d) Why does Juliet make such extended use 
of the subterfuge offered by her mother ? (c) Do you think the 
mother proposes to poison Romeo for her own vengeance, or to 
humour Juliet? (d) What does Juliet mean (1. 98) in 'I 
would temper it ' ? Would she need to see this man, to accom- 
plish this ? (e) What race differences patent in this dialogue ? 
(/) How did Shakespeare know so well how an Italian daugh- 
ter and her mother, of the top of respectability, would talk at 
such a time ? 



III. v] ROMEO AND JULIET 377 

5 (a) What do you say (11. 106, 107) of Juliet's words to her 
mother ? What mood is in them ? Are there tears yet in her 
voice ? (d) What feeling (1. 112) follows ? (c) What change 
(11. 117, 118) comes now .'' Are there tears in the tones here ? 
{d) How far did the author intend to make the energy (1. 122: 
'I swear') of her language significant.'' {e) What (11. 125, 
126) is her mother's feeling ? 

6 {a) Why should Capulet (11. 127-138) talk at such length 
of Juliet's weeping ? ((5) Can you explain Lady Capulet's man- 
ner (1. 141) of seconding her husband ? {c) How far has Capu- 
let (1. 145) 'wrought' Paris to be Juliet's suitor? (d) What 
does Juliet really mean (1. 149) by 'thankful for hate' ? 
(^) How far does Capulet seem to understand what she has 
said ? (/") What do you say of his language to her ? 

7 {a) Is it or is it not now clearer why Shakespeare has not 
made Capulet of the same mould as the Montagues .'' {b) What 
does Juliet (11. 159, 160), now kneeling, propose to say to her 
father ? (<:) How does the author prevent her doing this ? 
{d) Why is the Nurse made (11. 169, 170) to protest against 
Capulet's abuse ? {e) Why does not Juliet confess to her 
mother (11. 200-203) that she is a wife already ? (/") Do you 
think Lady Capulet afraid to stand up for her child ? 

8 {a) Why does not the Nurse now disclose Juliet's relation 
with Romeo ? {b) What is the ground of Juliet's dismay, her 
obligation to Romeo, or her obligation to duty ? (<:) Whom 
does it seem that Juliet has depended on chiefly hitherto, her 
parents or the Nurse ? (</) Why has Shakespeare given the 
play a nurse that will propose to Juliet such infamy ? (<?) Why 
is she betrayed into speaking disparagingly of Romeo ? 
(/) What race characteristics distinguish her from such a figure 
in an Anglo-Saxon household ? 

9 (a) How is it that Juliet has never (1. 228) till now dis- 
cerned the moral nature of her companion? {b) How would an 
Anglo-Saxon Juliet, at (1. 230) the point where her Italian sister 
dissembles, have behaved? (c) And what of the immediate and 
unhesitating prevarication (11. 231-233) to her mother? How 
would that strike us in a heroine of our own race? {d) Is this 
a difference in nature or in training? {e) What do you say of 



378 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [IH. v 

Juliet's idea of (II. 236-239) the 'sins' of the Nurse? What 
does this hint as to Juliet's ethic and religious training? 
{/) What is the effect on Juliet of this defection of the Nurse? 
(g) Do you think Juliet really has the power (1. 242), in case of 
an adverse issue, that she supposes ? {h) How would an English 
or American girl of equivalent maturity and strength prepare for 
failure ? 



ACT IV 



SCENE I 



1 (fl) At what time of the day does this scene open? (<J) How 
far have the events of the last scene reached, at its beginning? 

(c) What has Paris come to Friar Laurence for? (</) Has he 
waited to learn, from her parents, Juliet's mind? (e) Do you 
imagine that what he says (11. 9-12) of Capulet's purpose is a 
fair and truthful statement? How does he know? (/) Why is 
Paris unwilling to take any share of responsibility for the hurried 
marriage ? 

2 (a) How is it that Paris, too bashful to woo, is now (11. 18, 
20, 22, 24) so bold? (d) Whom does Juliet mean (1. 25) by 
'him'? (c) What do you say in general of Juliet's answers? 
How far do you find her petulant, indignant, spiteful? (/^/) Do 
you think her really more tolerant, or less tolerant, in her feelings 
toward Paris here than a Northern Juliet would be? Can you 
identify the forces the principles involved? (e) What does 
Paris mean (1. 29) by ' abused with tears ' ? 

3 (a) What effect is produced on you by Paris' talk? 

(d) What do you say of Juliet's manner of getting free of 
Paris? Is she precipitate? Does he guess her feeling? 
(c) How does the author make us sure what that feeling is? 
Why does he do this? (d) Can you explain how Juliet (11. 50, 
51) should be peevish and unreasonable? (e) How is it that 
(1. 54) she has a knife? (/) Does the Friar believe that Juliet 
will do as she proposes ? 

4 (a) What (11. 71-74) is the artistic purpose that Shake- 
speare is occupied with now? (d) Do you think Juliet naturally 
a fearless woman? Do you believe that she realises (11. 77-85) 
what she is saying? (c) What do you say (11. 87, 88) of her 
motive as she interprets it? Do you think it natural or not 
natural that she should understand so clearly the forces that 

379 



380 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [IV. i 

control her being? {d) Do you think that the author has or 
has not brought her to womanhood too speedily? {e) Why 
does the Friar cry 'Hold,' and repeatedly, to Juliet? 

5 {a) Why does not Juliet confess, or get absolved, before 
such a momentous undertaking? Why does not the Friar 
require it? {b) Were there ever concoctions capable of pro- 
ducing such results as (11. 95-106) the Friar describes? How 
far was the belief of Shakespeare's audiences in such things 
different from ours? (f) Why is the Friar made to outline to 
us, in advance, the operation of the potion? {d) Why does he 
speak of Juliet being 'uncovered' on the bier, and clad in the 
best of her daily wearing? 

6 (d;) Is there anything in the Friar's plan, besides relief, 
that furnishes a motive to Juliet? (b) Why does the Friar utter 
(11. 119, 120) any hint of a proviso? (c) What do you find 
(1. 121) in Juliet's mood? {d) Why does the Friar refer again 
(11. 123, 124) to Romeo? {e) Why does not this high-bred girl 
at least thank the Friar before withdrawing? (_/") Do you think 
that Juliet (1. 125) realises much of what is before her? 

SCENE II 

1 {d) How many guests at first (III. iv. 23) did Capulet pro- 
pose to have at Juliet's wedding? What does the present prepa- 
ration (1. 2) seem to argue ? {b) How do you explain the change ? 
{c) Has the Nurse (11. 11, 12) told Lady Capulet what Juliet bade ? 
{d) How far do you blame Juliet (11. 15 and 18-22) for looking 
merry and practising deceit? Who is responsible for her actions 
here? {e) What punishment for affecting enthusiasm (1. 24) 
now comes? (/") Does Juliet (11. 25-27) seem to mind? Would 
other Juliets probably feel in the same way at such a turn? 

2 (fl) Why does Juliet (1. 28) still kneel? {b) Who does 
Capulet (1. 30) intend should go to tell Paris of the shortened 
interval? {c) Why does Juliet take the Nurse away? (</) Why 
does Lady Capulet (1. 36) hold out for Thursday? (<?) What is 
the time-scheme, thus far, of the play? 

3 {a) Why is Capulet insistent (1. 37) that the wedding 
shall be changed to Wednesday? (b) Why has Shakespeare 



IV. Ill] ROMEO AND JULIET 38 1 

wished, through him, to change the time? (c) How will Capu- 
lefs stirring about (1. 39) assist? (d) Whom (1. 43) does Capu- 
let try to summon? Is he now alone? (e) Do you find or not 
find that you dislike this man ? (/) Do you like him or not like 
him better than Romeo's father? 

SCENE III 

1 (a) How far is Juliet (1. i) giving herself concern over what 
she shall meet Romeo in, and how she shall look? (d) What 
of her character is discerned in this? (c) Would Northern 
Juliets typically seem different or not different here? (d) Why 
did the Friar require (1. 2) that Juliet 'lie alone'? (e) Why is 
Lady Capulet so late (ii. 41) in complying with her husband's 
wish ? (/) What do you say of Juliet's way (11. 7-10) of dealing 
with her mother, who has come to help? (g) Where does Juliet 
get her strength of character? 

2 (a) What is Juliet's feeling (1. 14) as she bids her mother 
and the Nurse farewell? (1^) Are you disappointed that (1. 18) she 
calls for help ? Why does she yield to the impulse ? (c) How 
is it that, to bring 'them' back, she calls for the Nurse alone? 
(d) What effect is produced, by (11. 18, 19) her rallying herself, 
upon our sympathies ? (e) What do you say (11. 21-23) of the 
logic and order of her procedure ? 

3 (a) What is the practical result (11. 24-29) of her second 
inquiry ? (d) What kind of a temperament and mind do we 
(11. 30-35) now find are Juliet's ? (c) What effect of such visu- 
alising and realising, as follow upon the plausibility of her act ? 
(d) What is the result of this realising, in Juliet's intense and 
vivid vision, of her coming experiences in detail ? (<?) Of what 
imaginative quality (11. 36-54) do you find these lines ? 

4 (a) How does Juliet chance to realise now (11. 55, 56), ap- 
parently for the first time, her cousin Tybalt's hate ? (d) Why 
does she cry out that Tybalt should stay ? (^r) Why does she 
call to Romeo, and propose to come to him at such a moment of 
peril ? Does she think perhaps to go to them, in spirit, by way 
of the vial, or what is her thought ? (d) What do you say of 
the force, the energy, of the paragraphs in this scene ? (e) Have 
your impressions of Juliet been altered in any way ? 



382 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [IV. iv 

SCENE IV 

1 (a) What is the point of showing, now, while Juliet lies as 
in death upstairs, the bustle and commotion below in Capulet's 
mansion ? (d) Of what use is Capulet making himself in the 
preparations ? (c) Why should it be the Nurse who (IL 6-8) 
takes Capulet to task for staying up ? (^d) What seems to be 
the spirit (11. 14, 17, and 18) of the servants in these extra de- 
mands ? (e) Why is not Peter more acceptable ? 

2 («) How does Capulet enable himself to make the discov- 
ery (1. 20) that it is day ? (d) How far is it significant that 
he (1. 23) selects the Nurse to apprise Juliet ? (c) Why should 
he propose (1. 25) ' to chat ' with Paris at such a time ? (d) How 
many times has Capulet charged somebody to stir or hasten in 
this scene? How much acquaintance with the things going on 
does all this argue ? (e) Why has Capulet been made of late 
such an important figure ? And since when ? 

SCENE V 

1 (a) Why has Shakespeare not permitted Juliet's mother 
to be the first to enter here ? (d) By what rule of efficacy does 
the Nurse seem to select (II. 2, 3) awakening words ? (c) Why 
(1. 10) does not the author introduce Paris {cf. i. 107, 108) here, 
and suit the taste of his times ? (d) How is it that Juliet is not 
found, as the Friar seems to have intended, lying in her bed ? 
(e) What accompanies (1. 13) the Nurse's saying 'Lady, lady, 
lady' ? (/) Does the Nurse get (1. 16) the aqua vitae called 
for ? Why does she call for it ? 

2 (a) What is the effect of the sight (11. 19-21) upon Lady 
Capulet ? (d) What new impressions have you of her nature ? 
Does she seem Italian now ? (c) Has Capulet heard (1. 22) ap- 
parently the call for help ? (d) Why does the Nurse (1. 23) add 
'deceased' to her excited outcry? (e) What does Lady Capu- 
let do in connection with (1. 24) her next exclamation ? 

3 (a) What do you say of Capulet's utterance (11. 25-29) as 
he lays his hands upon his child ? Why is there, from this man 
of all men, poetic language ? (d) Does it seem that the lips 
(1. 27) are closed or parted ? (c) What does Capulet mean 
(1. 32) by ' ties up my tongue ' ? {d) Does it seem that Capulet 



IV. V] ROMEO AND JULIET 383 

or Lady Capulet connects this death with the forced marriage ? 
(e) Why should Friar Laurence and the musicians enter Juhet's 
apartments ? Should the setting perhaps be changed ? 

4 (a) How far does Capulefs grief (11. 34-40) seem tender 
and genuine ? (d) Why is the Nurse's lamenting (11. 49-54) so 
demonstrative ? {c) Can you interpret what Paris in his grief 
(11. 55-58) is saying ? (d) Why is the author keeping this 
situation open with so much talk ? (e) Of what use is (11. 65-83) 
the preachment of the Friar ? 

5 (a) What do you say of the practicalness (11. 84-90) of 
Capulefs response ? (l>) From which of her parents has Juliet 
seemingly derived her matter-of-fact tendencies of mind? (c) How 
does Shakespeare manage to close the dialogue ? (d) What 
need to hurry the supposed burial of Juliet ? (e) How is it that 
the musicians have not been dismissed ? (/) How is it that 
the Nurse has not withdrawn before ? What purpose does the 
author serve by retaining her as he does ? 

6 (a) What is there in the Nurse's figure that (11. 100, loi) 
excites comment ? (i) Has Peter, do you think, been sent 
here by anybody ? (c) Why is it that his sorrow is so strong ? 
(d?) Why does the author keep the musicians now, for this hardly 
edifying dialogue ? (<?) Is it or is it not well to close the scene 
with a dallying anticlimax ? 



ACT V 



SCENE I 



1 (a) At what time in the day, apparently, does the scene 
open ? Is it soon after Romeo's rising ? (i>) Why is Romeo 
so inclined to trust to the flattering truth of dreams ? Where 
hitherto has he been shown superior to their spell ? (c) Why 
does the author, in this first paragraph, give us again the typic 
Romeo of the earlier scenes ? (d) What does this manner of 
referring (1. 6) to Juliet betray ? (e) What new impressions 
come as to the diiTerence between this man's manner of thinking 
and living and Juliet's? (/) Is this difference due to race, or 
sex, or personality ? 

2 (a) Why does not Balthasar (1. ii) speak ? (d) Are 
there letters (1. 13) in sight ? (c) Is it significant that Romeo 
makes no inquiry about his mother ? (d) What do you say of 
Balthasar's report (11. 17-21) of Juliet's death ? Is he a man of 
refinement and culture ? (e) What has happened (1. 22) that 
makes him ask pardon ? 

3 (a) Why does Romeo ask no questions about the cause? 
(1^) What does (1. 24) his defiance show? (c) Is Romeo trust- 
ing the truth of dreams now? What has stopped the boyhood 
in him? (d) When did Juliet stop her dreaming and become 
woman ? 

4 (a) Is there anything Italian in Romeo's manner and con- 
duct here? (d) What does Balthasar (11. 27-29) fear? (c) Why 
does Romeo (1. 34) say 'Juliet,' and not ' my lady,' now? Is his 
mind in excitement or repose? (d) Do you think it natural or 
not natural that the sight of the shop (11. 42-48) should come back 
to him vividly in such detail? Might this happen to an Italian if 
not to an Anglo-Saxon mind? (e) What need of having Romeo 
add the remaining lines in this paragraph ? 

384 



V. Ill] ROMEO AND JULIET 385 

5 (a) What do you say of Romeo's way (11. 58-60) of bidding 
for the poison? Do you think he has other money here? 

(d) Why does Romeo crave drugs of such instantaneous action ? 
Is it to end life with the utmost quickness, or to escape the pains 
of death, or for some other reason ? (c) Do you think the apothe- 
cary yields to Romeo's pleading or his offer? Does he or does he 
not understand that he could have a larger sum on demanding 
it? (ci) Have you seen Romeo in a compelling mood before? 

(e) How far is it from Mantua to Verona? (/) Do you think 
Balthasar will tell Romeo the particulars of Juliet's death as they 
ride together? Why? 

SCENE II 

1 (a) What do you say of the dramatic opening, under present 
circumstances, of this scene ? (d) Would it or would it not have 
been better were this scene introduced before the last? (c) How 
far has the element of destiny been introduced before ? (^ ) What 
impressions, apart from knowledge, come to you with reference 
to the issue? 

2 (a) What difference between the Friars is evident? (d) Why 
did not Friar Laurence tell his brother the dear import of the 
letter? (t) How long is it since Juliet took the potion? (^) What 
time of day did she drink it? What time of day has now been 
reached? (<?) Does the Friar's amended plan seem practicable? 

SCENE III 

1 («) At what hour, apparently, does this scene open? ((5) Why 
(L 2) would Paris not be seen? What advantage does Shake- 
speare borrow thus? (c) Why should Paris have had his page 
come to carry the flowers? (d) What impressions and feelings 
concerning Paris now shape themselves ? (e) What use is made 
of having the page at hand ? 

2 (a) Has the arousement of Romeo's mind subsided? 
(d) What effect (1. 40) is produced upon Balthasar by Romeo's 
words? (f) Is Balthasar a man easily affrighted? Where have 
we evidence in the earlier part of the play? (d) Do you think 
Romeo capable of carrying out his threats (11. 33-36) with such 
a man? (e) Are there race characteristics or differences here? 
Explain. 

20 



386 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [V. in 

3 {a) What does Romeo apparently (I. 41) give to his man? 
{b) Why does Shakespeare make this action seem (11. 43, 44) 
to betray Romeo's purpose? (c) What do you say of Romeo's 
words (11. 45-48), as he wrenches open the iron bolts of the tomb? 
How do they measure the energy of his action? {d) What are 
your feelings toward Paris, as he attempts to arrest Romeo? 
{e) How should you have imagined Romeo would deal with 
him? How do you explain his tender consideration and plead- 
ing? 

4 {a) For what chief use, as we now see, was the page 
brought in? {b) Is the fight shorter or longer, apparently, than 
the one in which Tybalt met his death? Why? Has Romeo 
the same feeling toward his victim as at that time? {c) How do 
you explain Romeo's sublime willingness (1. 74) to allow the dead 
man's wish, and lay the body in his Juliet's grave? {d) What 
word in 1. jj has chief stress? Would an Anglo-Saxon Romeo 
have failed to catch and hold the meaning? {e) How far does 
Romeo's feeling change when he knows Paris was his rival? 
(/) What do you say of the feeling that manifests itself (11. 80, 81) 
in his next action? {g) Does the sight of Juliet, in all her reviv- 
ing, awakening beauty, make him lay seemingly the body of Paris 
farther off ? 

5 {a) What influences are perhaps arousing the feeling (1. 89) 
Romeo wonders at? {b) Why is not Juliet (1. 96) pale? 
(c) What do you say of (11. 101-109) his last words to Juliet? 
Can you discern the secret of their power? {d^ How is it that 
he does not perceive that (11. 113, 114) the lips have life? {e) Has 
he obeyed the directions (i. yj) of the apothecary? Why? 

6 {a) What has Friar Laurence (1. 122) stumbled over? 
{b) What does the Friar's word (1. 124) show as to his feeling 
in finding Balthasar? Why should he have such feeling? 
(c) Why does Shakespeare keep (1. 131) Balthasar from looking 
upon the scene within the tomb? What do you say of his man- 
ner of bringing this about? {d) Can you explain (11. 137-139) 
Balthasar's dream? Why should he have failed to stay awake? 
{e) What signifies the fact that (1. 142) both swords are gory? 

7 {a) What was a chief dread of Juliet about awaking? 
(b) What word (1. 148) seems to show that this feeling has 



V. Ill] ROMEO AND JULIET 387 

lasted through her trance? (c) Why does she not (1. 150) see 
Romeo, and why asks for him so immediately? («') What 
effect is produced on Friar Laurence (1. 151) by the noise? Is 
this plausible? (e) Why does he not stand by the work he has 
begun? (/) Does he expect to move Juliet by (11. 154-158) 
the considerations he uses? 

8 (a) Why is not Juliet (1. 160) afraid to be left alone in 
the tomb? (d) How is it that she does not cry out for causes, 
reasons? (c) Why is there no grief? (d) Why is she so hap- 
pily anxious to seek death? (e) Show how far she is yet 
(1. 168), in this extreme moment, like her old objective self. 
(/") Why should Juliet be concerned at the noise? (^) Why 
is the dagger (1. 169) 'happy'? (//) Why has she so great 
joy, so little horror, in her act? (/) What is un-Saxon in the 
manner of this awaking, and this death? 

9 {a) Should you have expected the page to bring watchmen 
earlier? (d) Why does the First Watchman bid (1. 178) 'raise 
up the Montagues'? (c) What (1. 188) is the time now reached? 
Why has the author so accelerated it? (d) Why does he bring 
together again the company which he presented early in the first 
scene? (e) Does Capulet understand (1. 203) that his daughter 
is only just dead? 

10 (a) What sort of a mother (1. 210) do we see that Romeo 
had? How far does he seem to have derived her nature? 
(d) What necessity that we should hear the Friar (II. 231-269) 
rehearse the story? (c) What real need (1. 271) of corroborat- 
ing the Friar's testimony? (d) Is the letter (1. 275) a logical 
factor, and is it of use? (e) Does Montague's proposal and 
promise (1. 299) seem characteristic? (/) How far is the au- 
thor's statement (11. 9-1 1 of Prologue) a true summary of the 
play? (g) What ultimate meanings, or lessons, has it brought? 



Ill 

TWELFTH NIGHT 
ACT I 

SCENE I 

1 (a) What is the mood of Orsino? (/5) What does his 
fondness for music and the fragrance of violets argue as to his 
temperament and nature? (c) What do his reflections (II. 9-15) 
signify as to his power of analysis and intellectual culture? 
(^) Do you infer, from (1. 16) Curio's question, that the Duke is 
or is not accustomed to ride to hounds? (e) What do you con- 
clude, from this inference, as to the essential manliness or 
effeminacy of the hero? 

2 (a) What do we find has drawn the Duke away from manly 
exercises? (d) What does he mean in (1. 20) 'purged the air 
of pestilence'? (<:) What should this signify as to Orsino's 
ideals, and the purity of his mind? (d) How does the Duke 
here resemble Romeo in his love for Rosaline? (e) How far 
should a comedy differ in tone and substance from a tragedy? 

3 (a) What does the exclusion of Valentine (1. 24) from the 
palace of a neighbour argue as to the feelings of the hostess? 
(d) What do you say of her proposing to shut herself up for 
seven years indoors ? Does this seem prompted by natural grief, 
or by some other motive? (c) What of the aversion that can 
propose to itself, for relief, such deprivation and discomfort? 
(d) Does the Duke seem wanting in acumen and judgment, more 
than, or much more than, Romeo? Why does he not see through 
the subterfuge of the lady? (e) How different does this Orsino 
seem from a typical Italian hero ? (/) How does Orsino propose 
(11. 40, 41) to beguile the time? 



I. in] TWELFTH NIGHT 389 

SCENE ir 

1 (a) Why should Viola, in this situation, be the first to 
speak? (/>) Why does not this high-born young woman speak 
with more grief (1. 5) about her brother? Does it seem that his 
death or rescue is the first and most fundamental thing in her 
thoughts? (c) What do you say (11. 8-17) of the Captain's 
explainings? Is the polished language due to unusual education, 
or to the influence of the person who is addressed? (d) Why 
does not Viola speak, if not more about her brother, at least 
about the destination for which they shipped, how she may con- 
tinue her journey? (e) Does it or does it not appear likely that 
she has heard others (1. 28) than her father speak of this Duke? 
Why does she add the last clause of the sentence? 

2 (a) How far do the inquiries of Viola remind you of Juliet's 
questioning of her Nurse on first meeting Romeo? (d) What is 
the difference between (1. 35) 'What's she' and Who's she? 
What would be a proper answer to the latter? (c) Why should 
Viola wish (1. 41) to 'serve 'that lady? (d) What are we to 
understand from 'made mine own occasion mellow'? (e) Should 
you say that her brother, on setting out, was a party to the scheme, 
or plan, according to which his sister's ' estate ' was to be kept 
concealed? 

3 (a) What, said by the Captain, seems to change Viola's 
rather distant wish to a resolution? (^) Why should she, who 
can (1. 52) pay bounteously, desire to be a servant to anybody? 
(c) Why has she concluded to change from the Countess to 
(1. 55) the Duke? (d) What do you conceive are the propor- 
tions of Viola's figure? Why does she not (1. 56) offer herself 
for the Duke's service as a page? (e) What do you say of the 
self-sufiiciency and strength of this young woman, and the motives 
arousing them? (_/") In how far does she remind you of Juliet? 
(,f ) From what country, apparently, have Viola and her brother 
sailed? (/i) In what seems Illyria different from Italy? 

SCENE III 

I (a) What is Sir Toby's status in this household ? (<5) How 
did such a man reach knighthood ? (c) What is he in appear- 
ance and figure? (d) What are your impressions of Maria? 



390 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [I. iii 

On the strength of what does she presume (11. 8, 9) to take her 
mistress's uncle to task? (e) Are we or are we not to recognise 
more than a household interest in (11. 14, 15) her next reference 
to his weakness? (/) From where, apparently, did Sir Toby 
bring in (1. 16) the foolish knight? (_^) Which seems to have 
the better of the other in this dialogue? 

2 (a) How does Sir Andrew contrast, in appearance and 
figure and manners, with Sir Toby? What do you say of his 
manner of greeting? (i^) How should such a fellow have become 
a knight? (c) What in Sir Andrew's behaviour seems to prompt" 
(1. 52) Sir Toby's 'accost'? (d) Why should Sir Andrew fail 
so egregiously in catching Sir Toby's meaning? (^) Do these 
knights seem to be Illyrians, or of what other race? (/") Do 
you think Sir Toby refers to Maria correctly (1. 54) as his niece's 
chambermaid? (g) Does she appear to belong to the same 
nationality as Viola, or as the knights? 

3 (fl) What effect does Sir Toby's assent (1. 92) to Sir An- 
drew's theory of his slow wit seem to have upon his visitor? 
(d) Can you account for Olivia's restrictions (11. 115-117) upon 
herself, about a husband, supposing that Sir Toby tells the truth? 
(ir) Why should Sir Andrew mention (11. 120, 121) his fondness 
for masques and revels here? Has he been entertained with 
these? (d) Does Sir Andrew's quickness or grace of movement 
seem to be of the kind called for in the 'galliard'? Does he 
know apparently what sort of dance is meant? (e) Has Sir An- 
drew ever been out of England ? Has Sir Toby ? 

4 (a) Why does Sir Toby set about flattering his friend? 
(d) What sort of a show (11. 149-151) does Sir Andrew furnish? 
(c) Why does Sir Toby wish to keep Sir Andrew from going 
home? (d) Why is not Olivia, in this scene laid in her own 
house, presented to us? (e) Why is this rather inconsequential 
comedy shown first and instead? 

SCENE IV 

I (a) Would a Valentine be likely to take to a new servant, like 
Caesario, with no trace of jealousy, after three days of overshadow- 
ing? How can this newcomer have thus approved herself to 
everybody, by conduct or by nature? (d) Why should Viola 



I. V] TWELFTH NIGHT 39 1 

ask (1. 7) whether her master is inconstant in disposition? 
(c) What does (1. 10) the Duke's call, and the manner of it, 
show? (d) Does it appear (II. 11, 12) that Valentine knows the 
extent to which Viola has gained her master's confidence? (^) Do 
you think that the Duke is diffident, unaccustomed to the society 
of refined women? Why does he think of sending Caesario 
rather than any other of his more tried servants ? 

2 (a) Do you think that Viola's manner of humouring her 
master, and of inventing select and gentle offices, is fairly illus- 
trated in the paragraphs following? (d) What does the Duke 
seem (1. 21) to mean by 'leap all civil bounds' ? (c) Do you 
think that Viola has expected (1. 23) or coveted this mission? 
(^) Why should she hesitate to see her rival? (e) Do you think 
she will (11. 41, 42) do her best for the Duke, or for herself? 
(/) How would this scene have struck you if Scene iii had been 
omitted, or placed after ? 



1 (a) Why should Maria care where the Clown has been? 
(d) What sort of a mistress has she, to remit punishment at her 
excuse? (c) How much does the Clown care for her help? 
(d) What is the Clown's point in referring (11. 29, 30) to her 
wit and Toby's drinking? (e) Why should the author introduce 
Olivia after the dialogue of two such servants as Maria and the 
Clown? (/) And what sort of a personage in appearance and 
air is Malvolio? 

2 (a) What evidently (1. 41) does the Fool essay with his 
mistress? (d) In what spirit does she answer? (c) How does 
the Clown manage to bafflie her resolve not to hear him? (d) How 
does Malvolio stand, and look, the while? (e) What character- 
isation of their mistress is effected incidentally withal? 

3 (a) With what feeling (11. 79, 80) does Ohvia end her dis- 
pleasure for the Fool's truanting? (d) How do you think the 
Fool likes Malvolio (II. 81-83) for his good word? (c) What 
do you think (11. 89-96) is the measure of Malvolio's mind? 
(d) What might be the effect on Malvolio of his mistress's digni- 
fying him thus with her society? (e) Can you see any point of 
the author's in bringing on Viola after such an introduction as 



392 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE? [I. v 

has now been furnished? (/") • Is there advantage of any kind in 
having the drunken Sir Toby (1. 112) 'hold him in delay'? 
(g) Is it wise for Olivia (1. 117) to commission her steward to 
dismiss, after his own pleasure, the suit of the Duke? 

4 (a) How has Olivia (11. 118, 119) made the Clown aware 
that his fooling grows stale? What is causing his decline? 
(6) Why does not the author let Viola come in? Why does he 
give us (11. 126-146) Sir Toby's maudlin talk, and the Fool's 
weak wit, instead? (c) What makes Maria and Sir Toby both 
sure that the man at the gate is not a servant but a gentleman? 

(d) What is the effect, on us, of hearing Malvolio (11. 147-171) 
discourse solemnly and stiffly about Viola and her insistence? 

(e) Why does not Viola at once announce herself as the mes- 
senger of the Duke, the ruler of the country? (/) Why does 
Olivia resolve to see the visitor? 

5 (a) Why does Olivia (1. 172) call Maria her 'gentle- 
woman'? (d) Do you understand why Olivia should have re- 
sorted, before the Duke's messengers, to this veil ? (c) To whom 
does Viola (11. 182, 183) appeal for knowledge as to which Olivia 
is? (d) Whom does she address in (1. 186) 'Good beauties'? 
(e) Why does she not answer (1. 190) whence she comes? 
(/) Do you think she has really (1. 193) made up a speech and 
'conned' it? 

6 (a) Do you think that Viola betrays, or does not betray, in 
all this, her sex? (d) Do you think that such influences as are 
palpable here would be potent or not to a man like, for instance, 
the Duke? (c) Is the mollification of Maria (1. 218) by a coin a 
wise expedient? How would a man have managed in such an 
exigency? {d) What, besides curiosity, prompts Olivia (1. 235) 
to send out the attendants and Maria, and hear the visitor? 
(e) Why is she willing (11. 252, 253) to unveil? (/) What 
makes Viola ask it? 

7 (a) Do you think, or do you not think, that Viola finds 
Olivia beautiful, as beautiful as herself ? What effect, upon Viola, 
of the seeing do you discern ? (d) With what sincerity or with what 
honesty does Viola act the advocate to her master? (c) Why is 
there a change from prose to verse? {d) Do you think Viola 
(11. 274, 275) means to exaggerate? (e) Why should not Olivia 



I. V] TWELFTH NIGHT 393 

be enamoured of a man (11. 276-282) of such qualities as she 
enumerates? (/) What does Viola evidently see in this answer? 
How far is she impersonal (11. 283-286) in her rejoinder? 

8 {a) By what different course of wooing, apparently, might 
the Duke succeed? {b) What do you say (11. 286-295) of the 
mode Viola proposes? Is it virile or womanish? (c) Is it the 
manner or the person that Olivia (1. 295) approves? Why does 
she ask the question following? {d) What word in 1. 300 has 
stress? {e) What does (I. 302) Olivia offer? Is this what is 
given usually to a servant? 

9 {a) How can Olivia, who rejects Orsino's effeminate ad- 
vances, fall in love with a woman ? (^) What makes her send 
Malvolio after with the ring? Will he probably execute her wish 
completely? {c) What do you say of this scene as a whole? 
{d) What has been gained by making Maria, in comparison with 
her mistress, so strong? (<?) If the comedy parts in the first por- 
tion (11. 1-176) were left out, what would be the effect upon the 
scene and on the piece? (/") What two veins of comedy are 
apparent in the construction of this play? (g) What would be 
the effect if either were used alone? 



ACT II 



SCENE I 



1 (fl) Why should Antonio (1. i) wish Sebastian to stay, or 
to allow his company? {b) What is the 'malignancy' (1. 4) 
of Sebastian's fate, or the evidence of it ? (c) Why apparently 
does Antonio ask (11. 9, 10) the destination of his new friend's 
travel ? {d) Where, after the first three words, is the stress in 
Sebastian's answer ? {e) What of the consideration, the cour- 
tesy, shown (11. 11-16) by Sebastian to the stranger ? (/) Did 
Viola seem to regret, when (I. ii) first shown to us, her escape 
from drowning, though a woman, and conceiving her brother 
dead ? Why should Sebastian regret rescue more ? 

2 {a) Would it seem that Viola (11. 26, 27) resembles her 
brother in figure ? {b) Would the purpose of the voyage, what- 
ever it may have been, seem Sebastian's rather, or Viola's ? 
Did Viola weep after the shipwreck 1 (c) How is it that after all 
Sebastian (11. 43, 44) is 'bound' to Orsino's court? (d) Do 
you or do you not find it necessary to assume some motive for 
Sebastian's evasions, and for his unwillingness that this anxious 
friend should keep with him further ? (e) What do you imagine 
this motive is ? (/") What other reason (11. 40-43) than grief 
brings Sebastian near to tears ? (g) What is the purpose of 
this scene ? 

SCENE II 

I (a) Do you think Malvolio has ' run ' after Viola, as 
bidden by his mistress ? (b) Do you find Viola (11. 3, 4) inso- 
lent to Olivia's servant ? (c) What do you say (11. 5-7) of Mal- 
volio's scolding ? What tone do you catch in it ? (d) Why 
does not Malvolio speak (1. 11) of Viola's returning to-morrow, 
as Olivia bade? (e) Why does not Viola at once (1. 13) deny 
that she left a ring with Olivia ? (/) Whose ring does Mal- 

394 



II. Ill] TWELFTH NIGHT 395 

volio think he is throwing on the ground ? What do you say 
of his excuse for doing this ? Does he believe that Viola threw 
it to his mistress ? 

2 (a) Why is not Viola (1. 19) well satisfied and gleeful that 
her rival is falling in love with her? (d) What does this signify 
concerning the character of the present heroine ? (c) Do you 
think it too much that Shakespeare makes her pity Olivia ? 
{(i) Why does she now regret (11. 28, 29) the disguise she 
wears ? (e) What do you say too (II. 30-33) of her insight and 
her philosophising ? 

3 (a) Why is not Viola worried about the outcome of her 
affection for the Duke ? (d) Why is she not confident ? 
(c) If Olivia could be made to conceive a proper and sufficient 
fondness for the Duke, what would be Viola's attitude and feel- 
ing ? (d) What plans, now that there can be no affection be- 
tween the Duke and her rival, does she begin to frame for her 
own profit ? (e) Is this scene tragical or comedial ? (/) What 
purpose or purposes does it serve ? 

SCENE III 

1 (a) Why does the author take the trouble to bring out 
(U. 1-5) that Sir Toby has had some schooling, but Sir Andrew, 
not ? (d) Where have these roysterers been keeping late hours 
together hitherto ? (c) How is it that they are carousing to-night 
in Olivia's house, and with Olivia's wine ? (d) Does it appear 
that the Clown has been trying (11. 22-25) to improve the qual- 
ity of his work ? (e) What do you say of the stanzas (11. 40-45 
and 48-53) sung by the Clown ? Are they more coarse or less 
coarse than would seem fitting to the scene ? 

2 (a) Why does Maria (1. 76) appear ? (d) Why does she 
stay ? (c) In whose name does Malvolio (11. 93-99) administer 
his rebuke ? (d) What do you say of a lady that (11. 102-108) 
sends a servant to give her uncle notice ? (e) Do you think 
(11. 128-129) that Malvolio neglects his badge of office ? 
(/) Why is Maria not concerned (II. 132, 135) at Malvolio's 
threat ? 

3 (a) Do you think that Olivia (11. 143, 144) is more exact- 
ing, or less, than hitherto ? (d) What does Maria mean (11. 151, 



396 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [H. in 

152) in saying that Malvolio is sometimes a kind of Puritan ? 
Have you seen any signs of pietism in his talk or actions ? Does 
Maria (11. 159, 160) give final testimony of a convincing sort ? 
{c) Why has the author been at such pains to establish motives 
for the trick to be played upon Malvolio ? (</) Has Maria 
brought the fresh liquor lately called for ? (^) What is the 
ground of her confidence that (11. 190, 191) there shall be no 
more disturbance to-night ? 

4 (a) Why does the author make Sir Andrew (1. 197) boast 
of his past? {b) Why should so much amorous endeavour, in 
Maria's vi^ooing of Sir Toby and Sir Andrew's hopeless tarrying 
for Olivia, accompany the main course of the plot? (t) What 
becomes (1. 199) of Sir Andrew's money? {d) Why did Sir 
Toby propose (1. 198) to give up for the night? (<?) Why does 
he resolve differently (1. 207) at last? (/) Where do the knights 
go to burn (1. 206) the sack? (_^) Why is not the Clown, after 
Malvolio's exit, heard from? 

SCENE IV 

1 {a) At what time of the day does this scene open ? 
{¥) Where is the Duke entering from? {c) Why should he 
preface (11. i, 2) his greeting and his request by 'now'? And 
is there anything to be remarked about the Duke's calling for 
music at such an hour? (^) Why is it Curio (1. 8), and not 
Caesario, who answers? (^) How does the Clown chance to be 
on hand at this time? Has he passed the night in the Duke's 
palace ? 

2 {a) Is it or is it not significant that the Duke should wish 
(11. 15-20) to talk to Viola as a companion, not a servant, while 
the Clown is sought? (J?) Why does the Duke, or Shakespeare 
rather, have music play during these moments? {c) Do the 
feminine influences of Viola seem or not seem to have touched 
the Duke more nearly than when we last saw them together? 
(rt') How far does the situation, or the Duke's talk, appear to 
arouse Viola to demonstrativeness? What in her speaking seems 
to impress the Duke (1. 23) as 'masterly'? (.<?) Why does she 
indulge herself (11. 25, 29) in equivocal answers? Is it for 
cunning, or the comfort of veiled confession ? 



II, IV] TWELFTH NIGHT 397 

3 (a) Does the Duke (1. 28) appear to recognise that Viola 
is devoid of rank? How far is the utterance mere compliment? 
(d) How much older is the Duke, seemingly, than Viola? 

(c) Why should he speak (1. 30) with such emphasis at the 
notion of a mere page enamoured of a woman of greater years? 
And what do you say (11. 31-36) of the after observations? What 
do they argue about the man? (d) Why should the Duke 
(1. 44) prefer the Clown's singing to Viola's? (e) Is it clear 
that Viola has presented herself as (I. ii. 56} a eunuch, according 
to her plan ? 

4 (a) In how far does the Clown's song here resemble the 
one rendered in the last scene? (d) What influence, with 
reference to the rather tender sentiments of the present situation, 
has the last scene exerted upon us? (c) Why has the' author 
been at such pains to bring in this singing from Olivia's jester? 

(d) Why does the Duke wish (1. 82) Curio and the attendants 
to withdraw, while he commissions Viola, whereas (I. iv) these 
were all present before? (e) Why should the Duke be more 
ready to send to Olivia now than before the talk to Viola and 
the singing? Why does he refer (11. 86, 87) to Olivia's wealth, 
since it is inferior to his own? 

5 (a) What feelings seem (11. 91-95) to be uppermost in 
Viola's mind? How far is self-interest, how far is motherly con- 
sideration, the controlling motive? (d) What do you say (11. 
96-106) of Orsino's next deliverance, as in comparison with 
preceding ones? (c) Does the Duke (1. 106) interrupt Viola? 
(d) Is her meaning when finished what she began to say? Has 
anything like this happened in her speech before? (e) Do you 
think she has any expectation that her meaning (11. 110-118) 
may in some way be divined? (/) Does what she here says 
seem consistent with the view that Orsino was a stranger when 
her service to him began? (g) Why does not Shakespeare 
make the antecedent circumstances, as in the play of GP Ingaii- 
nati, clearer? 

6 (a) Do you think Viola expects, or not, such a question 
(1. 122) as now follows? (b) Do you think that she has spoken 
to any one here (1. 124) about Sebastian? {c) Why does she 
(1. 125) change the subject, which she has herself introduced, so 



398 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [H. iv 

abruptly? {d) What of comedy do you find in this scene, and 
of what sort? {e) Do you find other than comedial elements 
here ? (/") What new impressions have you of Viola? 
{g) What seems to have been the purpose of this scene? 

SCENE V 

1 (a) Has Fabian been presented to us before? (b) Why 
does Sir Toby (1. 6) think Malvolio niggardly? {c) For whose 
entertainment is Maria managing her trick, and with what motive? 
{(i) What does she mean (11. 20, 21) that Malvolio has been 
doing? (^) Why, apparently, does the author make Malvolio 
(11. 27-33) soliloquise about his 'fortune,' in advance? 

2 (a) How far does it seem necessary to have Malvolio 
arouse the wrath of Sir Toby and Sir Andrew ? {b) Why is 
Fabian so anxious lest they be overheard? Why is Maria made 
to withdraw? {c) How has Olivia seemed to her steward, that 
he can suppose the communication hers? (d) Is it or is it not 
remarkable that Maria has devised and executed so good a 
counterfeit ? How has she gained her accomplishments ? 
(^) What prospects or possibilities has, seemingly, Sir Toby, in 
the author's thought, to engage her machinations? (/") How 
much younger than Sir Toby is, apparently, his niece? 

3 {a) Why do not Maria and the knights realise the risk of 
counterfeiting a ' declaration ' from the mistress of the establish- 
ment? {b) How can the author avert the consequences of it 
from these persons? {c) Do you consider Sir Toby's enthusiasm 
(1. 206) genuine? (^/) What of the resources of imagination 
(11. 207, 210) shown by Sir Andrew in his excited state of mind? 
(^) How should the author think it necessary to make us know, 
by Maria, beforehand, how Malvolio will behave? (/") Why 
should such a scene as this be put after such a scene as the 
preceding? 

4 (a) How does Maria, in her pursuit of Sir Toby, help Viola 
with us in her hopes and purpose? {b) What difference would 
it make, in our feelings toward Viola, if the Duke were wooing 
Olivia, in presence, after a virile fashion? (f) How far would 
Olivia be capable, under the most favorable circumstances, of 



II. V] TWELFTH NIGHT 399 

appreciating the Duke's intelligence and worth? (d) How much 
harm does Olivia's rejection do the Duke with us? (e) If Mal- 
volio's ineffectual presumption were removed from the play, what 
character, besides Olivia, would suffer? (/) For the sake of 
which character was the play composed? 



ACT III 



SCENE I 



1 (a) Does it seem that Viola recognises this Feste, her late 
rival in singing before the Duke? (d) Is it the habit of this 
Fool (11. 6, 7) to explain in detail his jokes? (c) Comparing 
his utterances here with what he (I. v.) has been saying to 
his mistress, do you find him inclined, or not inclined, to spare 
the Duke's messenger? (</) Do you find any suggestion 
(11 44-46) of a motive? (e) What is the Clown's temper and 
meaning (IL 63-65) in his last words? 

2 (a) How far is Viola's mind preoccupied (11. 67-75) with 
her personal troubles? (d) Can you see any reason why she is 
made to pronounce this soliloquy here? (c) Where do Sir Toby 
and Sir Andrew come from? Do they or do they not still show 
effects of burning sack ? (d) What do you say of Viola's success 
in playing a man's part in their presence? Does she seem or 
not seem to improve in her assumed role? 

3 (a) Do you think that Viola is trying (11. 95, 96) to cap- 
tivate Olivia yet more? (d) What do you say (11. 103, 104: 
'leave me to my hearing') of the impression Olivia must be 
making upon her people? Has she put on her veil? (c) Why 
does Olivia ask (1. 107) Viola's name? (d) Why does Viola 
affect humility ? How would her woman's feeling naturally 
prompt her to behave? (e) Why does Viola betray (1. 121) so 
quickly that she comprehends? What probably would a man 
have done? (/) What do you say (11. 122-133) of Olivia's 
more explicit declaration? Is it unseemly? Does it seem like 
Olivia? (g) How far was it once considered permissible for a 
lady like Olivia to make advances to one beneath her rank? 

4 (a) What do you say (1. 134) of Viola's scrupulous truth- 
fulness to her rival ? (d) What does Olivia (1. 138) apparently 
think is the reason for the unresponsiveness of this page ? 
(c) What is the dramatic use (1. 140) of the striking of the 

400 



III. Ill] TWELFTH NIGHT 4OI 

clock ? {d) What is Olivia's point in preferring the lion to the 
wolf? (f) Why does Olivia (1. 142) so foolishly attempt to 
unsay herself? {/) What is the effect of the utterance, as a 
whole, upon Viola? {g) Does it seem (1. 148) that Viola has 
given Olivia the jewel (II. iv. 126) sent by the Duke ? 

5 (a) What prompts (1. 150) Olivia's question ? What does 
she hope to elicit ? {b) What do you say of Viola's answer ? 
Why is she not more pointed ? {c) What does Olivia mean in 
her reply? {d) In what sense does Viola (1. 156) use 'fool' ? 
(^) How far do you think Viola feels (11. 157, 158) the emotions 
that Olivia thinks she reads ? 

6 (a) Can you account for the outbreak that follows ? 
(<5) What is your feeling toward Olivia here ? (^) What do you 
think was the look, the manner of Viola, as (11. 169-174) she re- 
plies, judging from the effect upon Olivia ? {d) Why does not 
Olivia attempt to detain her, or to continue the conversation ? 
(^) Are we to judge anything, from Olivia's admission in the last 
line of the scene, as to what she thinks now of the messenger ? 
(/) Has or has not Viola done her duty in trying to speed her 
master's suit ? 

SCENE II 

1 («■) What is the time of this scene with reference to the 
last one ? {b) Of what use here (11. 4, 5) is Fabian ? (c) What 
'favours' has Olivia bestowed upon Sir Andrew ? (rtf) Do you 
think Olivia did (1. 11) see Sir Andrew ? (e) What has Olivia 
done to Viola that Sir Andrew considers favours ? 

2 (<?) Why is Fabian shown (11. 19-31) talking thus against 
his mistress ? {b) What do you say of the evolving of the chal- 
lenge ? {c) Why does Fabian expect that (1. 61) the letter will 
not reach Viola ? {d) Why does the author make Maria tell in 
details how Malvolio looks ? {e) Do you think that Olivia (1. 88), 
were it not for her troubles, would strike him ? (/) What is 
the purpose of this scene ? 

SCENE III 

X {a) Has Antonio been complying (1. 4) with Sebastian's 
wish ? Why ? {b) Where are these men now, and how long is 
2 D 



402 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [HI. iil 

it since we last saw them ? (c) Has Sebastian apparently yet 
visited Orsino's court? (d) Does he or does he not seem 
minded to take Antonio with him thither ? (^) Why is Sebas- 
tian so evasive about his place of lodging ? 

2 (a) Is Antonio (11. 26, 27) a citizen of Illyria ? (d) What 
(1. 35) is Antonio's offence ? {c) Why does he insist (1. 38) on 
leaving with Sebastian his purse ? (d) Why does he propose 
the place of lodging ? (e) Is this attachment of Antonio for 
Sebastian, being thoroughly un-Saxon, reasonable and credible 
here ? 

SCENE IV 

1 (a) Why did not Olivia detain Viola, when she was with 
her, rather than try to induce her to return ? (^d) How does 
Olivia (11. 5-7) think to use Malvolio ? (t:) How is it that Olivia 
is more tolerant of Malvolio than of the Duke ? (d) What does 
/lo, ho (1. 18) indicate ? {e) What words in (11. 26, 27) Olivia's 
second reply ? (/") What is evidently (1. 32) her notion as to 
the cause of this strange behaviour ? 

2 {a) Why does Maria (11. 37, 40) work herself into the 
situation ? Why is her mistress silent ? {b) How must Mal- 
volio have accounted for his mistress's surprise ? (c) How do 
you like Olivia in this dialogue ? Is the sum of your impressions 
of her altered ? {d^ Do you think the author is preparing, by 
what he gives us here, to bring Viola and Olivia together again, 
or is it for some other comedial action ? {e) What would 
Olivia have done (1. 67), apparently, if she had not been called 
away ? Why does she think of ' cousin ' Toby now ? 

3 {a) What do you say (11. 71-92) of Malvolio's soliloquy ? 
How far are you anxious, now, as to what may happen to him ? 
{b) Is Sir Toby (11. 93-96) in earnest or pretending ? (c) In 
what does the comedy of the dialogue following consist ? 
{d) Who will force (11. 148, 149) Malvolio into the dark room 
and bind him ? {e) How does Fabian (1. 156) know that more 
fun is coming ? 

4 {a) Why has the Clown given place to Fabian in these 
situations ? How do Fabian and Feste differ ? {b^ Why does 
not Sir Toby think best, after all, to give the letter to Viola ? 



III. V] TWELFTH NIGHT 403 

Do you think he explains, fully, in (11. 202-208) what he says to 
the others ? (c) Does Olivia seem to have invited Viola 
(11. 221-237) to stay for feasting ? (d) What do you imagine 
has been the current of conversation between these before we 
overhear ? (e) Why does Viola appear so changed .'' Will 
she wear (1. 228) Olivia's jewel ? 

5 (a) What do you say (11. 240-246) of Sir Toby's chal- 
lenge ? Does he seem, or not seem, to have associated with 
people of breeding at some time hitherto ? (d) What do you 
say of Viola's responding paragraphs ? How far do they seem 
masculine, how far the utterances of a woman ? (c) What kind 
of comedy have we here ? (c/) Why should Shakespeare have 
a knight (11. 318-319) so imposed upon ? (e) Do you think 
that Fabian tells (II. 322-324) the truth about Viola ? (/) Do 
you think the author creates the ensuing situation between Viola 
and Sir Andrew for the sake of the comedy we see in it, or to 
enable (1. 342) Antonio's interference ? 

6 (a) How are we to explain Antonio's being or coming 
here ? (d) What do you say (11. 354, 355) of Viola's request 
to Andrew ? (c) What does Antonio mean in (1. 366) ' with 
seeking you' ? (d) Do you regard the misunderstanding now 
occasioned here, between Antonio and Viola, as comedial ? 
(f) Why does the author carry the matter (11. 388-391 and 
393-397) so far ? 

7 {a) What do you say of Viola's repose and self-possession 
here ? (d) What is (1. 406) evidently Antonio's mood ? 
(c) Why does not Viola ask, as many women would have done, 
and excitedly, too, about Sebastian ? (d) Does or does not 
Viola show Anglo-Saxon peculiarities of mind and nature ? 
(e) Which among the characters so far considered in this vol- 
ume does she most resemble ? (/") How does the author get 
Viola away without the necessity of speech to Sir Toby and his 
friends ? 



ACT IV 



1 {a) How has Sir Andrew missed Viola ? {b) How does 
Sebastian chance to be passing ? (c) How is it that Olivia (I. 6) 
has sent after Viola again ? (^d) How does this character on 
the whole sustain the sacrifices that the author has been forced 
to make of it as a r61e ? (^) What does the Clown suppose that 
the supposed Cassario (1. 20) gives him money for ? (/") How 
far does Sebastian speak and act like his sister ? 

2 (a) What does Sir Andrew (1. 27) strike Sebastian with ? 
{b) With what does Sebastian (1. 30) apparently strike Sir 
Andrew in return ? {c) Why has the Clown put himself on the 
side opposite (1. 32) to those that he has sided with hitherto ? 
{d) What (1. 34) is Sir Toby doing ? {e) What (11. 47-49) is 
Sir Toby's opinion of his skill with the rapier ? In what attitude 
does Olivia find him ? 

3 (fl) What signifies Olivia's way of addressing (1. 49) her 
uncle? Why is it not 'cousin' Toby? {b) Why does Olivia 
(1. 51) ask if it shall be 'ever' thus? What must have been the 
'fruitless pranks' (1. 59) that she speaks of? {c) Why cannot 
Sebastian imagine (1. 65) that some one else may be mad besides 
himself? {d) Is it natural that a man of Sebastian's birth and 
breeding should follow Olivia so passively? (e) What sort of 
comedy is this? 

SCENE II 

I {a) Why should Maria (11. 1-4) wish to carry the joke 
further? {b) Where did Sir Toby go after being sent away by 
his niece? And why is not Sir Andrew with him? (c) How far 
is there satire in this use of the character of Sir Topas ? (</) How 
should Maria be equal (1. 70) to providing a priest's gown and a 
false beard so readily? How must Shakespeare have conceived 
her? (e) Why has not Sir Toby found, at least since 1. 31, the 
diversion that Maria expected? (/) What signs of a maudlin 
consciousness have we noted of late in Sir Toby ? 

404 



IV. Ill] TWELFTH NIGHT 405 

2 (a) Why does Sir Toby wish (11. 71-77) a formal report of 
Malvolio's condition, and one rendered to him in his chamber, 
from the Clown? (/>) Why does the author permit or insure 
such delay in our knowing the outcome of Sebastian's being 
drawn by Olivia into her palace? (c) What tempts the Clown 
(11. 102-109) to play his double part? Why does the author in- 
troduce anything so farcical? (d) How far do you think the 
Clown is influenced, in (1. 121) his promise, by what (11. 72-74) 
he has heard Sir Toby say? (e) What are your feelings toward 
Malvolio now? (/) What purposes has this scene been made 
to serve? 

SCENE III 

1 (a) What words in the first line have stress? (d) Why 
did Shakespeare need somebody to stand recipient, in Viola's 
place, of Olivia's affection? Why does he not leave Olivia, whom 
he has used for plot purposes so unreverently, lorn? (c) What 
are your impressions of Sebastian, who calls Olivia's impetuous 
suit to him (1. 11) a 'flood of fortune,' in comparison with his 
sister? Does or does not the author seem to care much for this 
character? (d) Has Olivia appeared to Sebastian as more potent 
and effective (1. 17), in controlling her affairs and people, or less 
efficient and strong, than we have found her? 

2 (a) Would our feelings, if Olivia had proposed (1. 26) the 
final ceremony, have been the same or not the same as now? 
(d) How far was the precontract, here proposed by Ohvia, less 
binding? (c) Do you think that what Olivia does would strike 
an audience in Shakespeare's time differently from a modern 
one? (d) Do you think Viola could have been capable of such 
a course as this with the Duke? (e) How is it to be explained 
that Olivia, who would be considered more modest and retiring 
than Viola, has been brought into such a r6Ie? Is the human 
nature here correct ? 



ACT V 



SCENE I 



1 (a) Why does not Fabian (1. 6) wish to make Malvolio's 
letter, as he would have done earlier, a matter of common know- 
ledge? (^) Has Viola been back at the Duke's palace since 
leaving here? (c) What has, at last, drawn out the Duke to 
come to Olivia's home in person? (d) Why does the author 
allow, by (11. 9-52) the Duke's talk with the Clown, so much de- 
lay? (e) How is it to be explained that (1. 53) the Officers bring 
Antonio here? 

2 (rt) What do you say of the intellectual and executive suffi- 
ciency shown (II. 54-62) in the Duke's paragraph to his officer? 
How far does the Duke seem the same as in former scenes? 
(d) How far does he appear (11. 72-75) anxious to recognise the 
kindness done to his page? (c) Does (1. 100) the Countess hear 
the Duke's words about her? (d) What signifies Olivia's ad- 
dressing her visitor (1. 104) before he has paid his respects to 
her? (e) What does she mean (1. 106) by her first words to 
Caesario ? 

3 (a) Why does the author make Olivia (1. 109) uncivil to 
the Duke, who is also governor and master of the state ? (d) Why 
does Olivia think it necessary (11. 1 1 i-i 13) to be uncivil? (c) How 
has the Duke (II. 125, 128) found out Olivia's fondness for Cee- 
sario ? Has Viola betrayed it ? Has the Clown, or who ? (d) Why 
does Viola (11. 145, 146) follow the Duke so willingly? Would 
an Anglo-Saxon Viola have done so? (e) Do you think she in- 
tends to reveal her identity to the Duke? (/) Does the Duke 
(11. 137-139) hear her confession? Why does she make it to 
Olivia's ears? 

4 (a) How does Viola probably explain (1. 147) Olivia's 
claims? (d) Why is she not more aroused? (c) How can 
Olivia say (I. 153) 'as great as that thou fear'st'? (d) Why is 
not Viola (1. 173) even yet dismayed? (e) What is significant 

406 



V. I] TWELFTH NIGHT 407 

in (1. 178) Sir Andrew's saying 'he' instead of giving any name? 
(/) What is the use (1. 187) of such a farcical turn just here? 

5 (a) How does the Duke know (1. 199) that Sir Toby is a 
gentleman? ((^) Does Sir Toby seem intoxicated here? (r) Why 
does he use (11. 212-214) such plain language to his friend? 
(d) Where had the knights set upon Sebastian, and upon what 
occasion? (e) What must have been the effect (1. 223) of seeing 
another Viola appear? Why does not Olivia speak? How soon 
does anybody say anything? 

6 (a) Where (1. 228), in Antonio's question, is the stress? 
(d) Where is it (1. 233) in Sebastian's question? (c) Is it the 
brother or the sister that seems (II. 233-243) the more aroused? 

(d) What do you say (11. 256-260) of Viola's withholding her- 
self from embracing her brother? (e) What do you say of the 
diction and the repose of this paragraph ? 

7 (a) Why is not Olivia (11. 266-270) heard from ? ((5) How 
far is this comedial, and according to what idea or form of com- 
edy? (c) What do you say (11. 276-279) of Viola's words to 
the Duke? Are they in keeping? (</) Would she say perhaps 
that her occasion (I. ii. 43) is now mellow? Does she seem to 
have had faith in such an issue? (e) Why does the author de- 
vise means (11. 281-284) of keeping us from seeing Viola again, 
as at the opening, in her proper clothing? 

8 (a) Do you think (1. 284) that Malvolio wears a sword? 
(^) Why should the course of the play be delayed over the read- 
ing of iVIalvolio's letter? (c) Why should Malvolio (1. 323) be 
brought in, but not Maria? (d) What is the author's point 
(11. 324-328) in having Olivia make her oiTer to the Duke? 

(e) Why is the Duke (11. 322, 335) taken into the company that 
shall judge Malvolio? (/) What do you say of the showing 
and the impression (11. 338-363) that Malvolio makes? 

9 (a) What in (1. 377) Olivia's words starts Fabian up? 
(d) Does Fabian state (11. 366-371) the responsibility fairly to 
himself? (c) Why does Shakespeare make Maria to have achieved 
her ends already? (rt') Why does the author wish Malvolio to 
be absent from the close? How does the Clown's quotation 
(11. 378-385) insure that? (e) Why has the author connected 



408 WHAT IS SHAKESPEARE ? [V. i 

Malvolio (11. 283, 390) with Viola's benefactor? (_/") Why is 
not Antonio rewarded, to us, for his Italian devotion to Viola's 
brother? (g) Why (11. 393, 394) are all stayed at Olivia's home? 
(/i) Does there seem point in the way of closing, and in having 
such a clown sing such a song? (z) What are your impressions 
as to the meaning of this play ? 



INDEX 



All's Well that Ends Well, 267. 

Antigonus, amusing to the half-insane 
Leontes, 127 ; refuses to obey the 
King, 127 ; bidden by the King to 
expose the child, 128; dreams of 
the Queen, 134; poetic justice of 
his death, 134. 

Antony and Cleopatra, 182, 270, 315. 

Apollo's oracle, appealed to, 123; 
findings of, 132; impugned by 
Leontes, 132. 

Arden, Mary, 237, 238, 245, 270. 

Arden, Robert, 237, 238, 240, 247. 

Arviragus, an Apollo nature, 75, 77; 
comes nearer to his sister's sympa- 
thies, 79; sounds the harp, 81; 
determines obsequies, 84 ; resolves 
to share in the battle, 92; resem- 
blance to his mother, 102. 

Aston Cantlowe, 237, 240. 

Astrophel and Stella, 271. 

As you Like It, 256, 268, 325. 

Bacon question, 281. 

Banquo, as Duncan's chamberlain, 
203 ; his defection, 205 ; not awaked 
by the castle bell, 210; his death 
required by the plot, 212; his ene- 
mies, 214 ; apparition of, raised by 
the Witches, 215 ; the apparition 
managed so as to ruin Macbeth, 
216 ; his apparition again produced, 
219. 

Belarius, intolerant of the King's 
Latin tastes, 65; recognises Clo- 
ten, 80; kept from the obsequies, 
84; drawn by the lads into the 
battle, 92 ; helps rescue the King, 

94- 

Benvolio, 151, 156, 177. 
Blackfriars Theatre, 274. 
Brooke, Romeus and Juliet of, 149. 
Burbage, Richard, 250, 255, 268, 274, 
276. 



Camillo, kept as a witness of the 
King's bickering, 116; his consent 
to poison Polyxenes, 117; a dis- 
guised guest at the festival, 144; 
captivated by Perdita, 145; dis- 
loyal to Polyxenes, 147. 

Capulet, 152, 156, 158, 179. 

Character drawing, art of, 153. 

Chettle, Henry, apology of, 253. 

Chorus, in Romeo and Juliet, 160; 
in The Winter's Tale, 161. 

Cloten, assaults Posthumus, 17; 
belated in dissipation, 43; calls 
Imogen 'sister,' 49; embittered 
by Imogen, 53; puts on garments 
of Posthumus, 71 ; reaches Wales, 
77; slain by Guiderius, 80; left as 
in burial beside Imogen, 86. 

Comedy of Errors, 260, 287. 

Cordelia, 304, 305, 306, 309, 310, 311, 
312. 

Coriolanus, 182, 270, 318. 

Cornelius, gives pretended drugs to 
Queen, 28 ; disarms fear of the 
audience, 29; brings court ladies 
to Wales, 96. 

Coventry, 240. 

Cromwell, Thomas, injunction of, 

237- 

Cymbeline, defies Rome, 59; has 
Latin tastes, 65; rescued by his 
sons and Posthumus, 94. 

Cymbeline, use of the two Gentlemen 
in, 9; maximum consummation in, 
184; obstacles in, 225; subjective 
climax in, 230; date of, 274; place 
of, 287. 

Cyrano de Bergerac, 235. 

Davenant, Sir William, 250, 259. 
Donalbain, aroused by the bell, 

210. 
Doricles, pseudonym of Florizel, 143. 
Droeshout, Martin, 279. 



409 



410 



INDEX 



Droeshout painting, 279. 

Duncan, a weak personage, 185; not 
presented as in Holinshed, igo; 
like Polonius, 192; fails to reward 
Macbeth, 199; is unsuspicious, 
201 ; brouglit to Macbeth's castle, 
203; of the Edward Confessor 
type, 222. 

Dunsinane, 224. 

Edward the Confessor, not an effi- 
cient ruler, 222; type of, used to 
assist Malcolm, 222. 

Emerson, quoted from, 131. 

Euriphile, not mentioned in the fu- 
neral song, 85 n. 

Evan Ha7'rington, 232. 

Every Alan in his Humour, 255, 264. 

First Act, proper ending of, 205. 
First Folio, 14, 184, 189, 227, 255, 279, 

280, 285. 
First Lord, serves as the reader's 

proxy, 123 ; demands the response 

from Delphi, 132. 
First Witch, wrecks a ship, 195 ; as 

Norn of thie Past, 196. 
Fleance, pursued, 214. 
Folios, Second, Third, and Fourth, 

280. 
Fourth Act, a preparing time, 223. 
Free Grammar School, of Strattord, 

242. 

Gertrude, Hamlet's mother, re- 
deemed by Shakespeare, 291 ; 
restored to her son, 299; prevari- 
cates to the King in his behalf, 301 ; 
drinks to his success, 301. 

Ghost of Hamlet the Elder, return 
of, 297 ; his forgiveness of Gertrude, 
298. 

Globe Shakespeare, 14 n. 

Globe Theatre, 267, 275. 

Goneril, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 
310. 

Greene, Robert, responsible for the 
appeal to Delphi, 124; his mention 
of a jury not borrowed, 129 ; attack 
of, on Shakespeare, 251. 

Guiderius, more active and martial 
of the brothers, 73; like his sister, 
75; kills Cloten, 80; determines 
the place of burial, 84; drawn by 



Arviragus into the battle, 92; aids 
in rescue of King, 94. 

Hall, Dr. John, 270, 278. 

Hall, Elizabeth, 280. 

Hamlet, scruples of, 290 ; drastic use 
of, for artistic ends, 294, 301 ; trusts 
again his mother, 300 ; his soliloquy 
over campaign of Fortinbras, 302; 
magnificent in action, 302. 

Hamlet, 256, 269, 288, 290. 

Hathaway, Anne, 246, 248, 276, 280. 

Hemmings, John, 274, 276, 280, 

Henry I V, birst Fart of, 263. 

Heitry V, 267, 287. 

Henry VI, Third Part of, 252. 

Henry VIII, 274, 275. 

Hermione, called on by the King to 
keep his friend from going, 112; 
offers an excuse for her husband, 
114; draws Polyxenes aside, 115; 
her sorrow for her husband, 121 ; 
her faith in the right, 122, 130; the 
womanliness of her part, 131 ; un- 
aroused by the response, and the 
death of Mamillius, 133; swoons 
at her husband's confession, 133; 
compared with Imogen, 134; the 
secret of her power, 135. 

Holinshed, 185, 186, 187, 190, 191, 
199, 212, 213, 219, 312. 

lachimo, lies in wait for Posthumus, 
22; outwits him, 27; in awe of 
Imogen, 34; his strategy of the 
trunk, 41; his fear in Imogen's 
chamber, 46; exasperates Posthu- 
mus, 55 ; drawn into the British 
wars, 77; conscience of, aroused, 
93; confesses to Imogen, 99. 

Imogen, repose of, 11 ; objectiveness 
of, 19; influence of, on lachimo, 
34 ; deceived by the strategy of the 
trunk, 41 ; a reader, 43 ; made ca- 
pable of embittering Cloten, 52; 
lured away from court, 62; willing 
to go to Italy, 69; her supposed 
death, 81 ; willing to go away from 
the supposed grave of her hus- 
band, 88 ; refuses to save Lucius, 
98 ; sorrows for her father's loss, 
102; her character, 105; compared 
to Hermione, 134. 

Incident plays, 287. 

Interpretation of a play, 5. 



INDEX 



411 



Jonson, Ben, 255, 263, 279, 285. 

Juliet, age of, 153; promises to be 
dutiful, 155 ; discerns Romeo's na- 
ture, 158 ; of Gothic temperament, 
160; gives up her hate of the 
Montagues, 166; her matter-of-fact 
mind, 167; plans for herself and 
Romeo, 168, her faith, 170; for- 
gets to arrange, with Romeo, the 
hour, 172; an Imogen-nature, 175; 
power of, over Shakespeare's au- 
diences, 175 ; tries to confess to her 
father, 179; accepts death, in ef- 
fect, for Romeo's honour, 179; 
does not ask for reasons, 180. 

yulius CcBsar, 288, 312. 

Kemp, William, 255, 268. 
King James, 225, 254, 269. 
Ki'i^ yohn, 260. 
King Lear, 182, 270, 303. 
Kronberg, 300. 

Label, interpolated use of, 104. 

Lady Capulet, 152, 153, 154, 155, 159. 

Lady MacDeth wills her husband's 
advancement, 200; aroused by 
news of the King's coming, 201 ; 
prays for help against her weak- 
ness, 201 ; worships her husband, 
202 ; controls her husband, 205 ; 
essays the killing, 207; her first 
blunder, 209; her swoon, 211 ; ap- 
pears but once as Queen, 211 ; 
drives away her guests, 217 ; walks 
in her sleep, 224. 

Lady Macduff, butchery of, 219 ; 
idealised through her son, 220. 

Lear, not savage or brutish, 309. 

Leontes, insults of, to King of Bohe- 
mia, III, 112; puts on his Queen 
the burden of making Polyxenes 
stay, 112; his jealousy, 113; his 
irony to the Queen, 115; goes 
aside with Mamillius, 116; invades 
the Queen's apartments, 120; ex- 
asperated by her repose, 122; ap- 
plies to the oracle at Delphi, 123 ; 
stands in awe of the Queen's 
strength, 126; forces Antigonus to 
expose the child, 128; summons 
the sessions, 129; impugns the 
oracle, 132; confesses his insin- 
cerity, 133; proposes daily grief, 
137- 



Literature, an institutional device, 7. 
Literature of Shakespeare, 330, 331. 
Love's Labour's Lost, 263. 
Love's Labour's lVo?i, ■26J. 
Lucius, belittled by the author, 98 n. 
Lucrece, 258. 

Macbeth, how to make a hero of, 
186 ; did not kill Macdonwald, 186 ; 
obliged to defeat the Danes, 191 ; 
aided by witchcraft, 191 ; delivers 
Scotland, 193; cousin of Duncan, 
193; the hero of the country, 196; 
his loyalty to the king, 198; a free 
moral agf nt, 199 ; feels his first fear, 
202; his first blunder, 209 ; subordi- 
nation to Macduff, 210; appears 
crowned but once, 211; as the 
Third Murderer, 214 ; sleepless and 
crazed, 215; identifies the appari- 
tion of Banquo, 216; his acceler- 
ated decline, 218 ; withdraws to 
Dunsinane, 224. 

Macbeth, 182; first scene in, 187: a 
simple play, 194; knocking on the 
gate in, 208; why a tragedy, 213; 
made perhaps on requisition of 
King James, 225 ; production of, 
270 ; place of, in the grouping, 287. 

Macdonwald, 185, 186, igi, 205. 

Macduff, the strong man of the play, 
209; disconcerts Macbeth, 210; 
characterised through his son, 220 ; 
subordinated by Malcolm, 221 ; his 
new motive for vengeance, 223. 

Major obstacle in Macbeth, 198; 
resolution of, 205, 208; in Cymbe- 
line, 226; in The Waiter's Tale, 
227 ; in Romeo and Jjiliet, 2ig ; in 
Richard Carvel, 231 ; in Quentin. 
Dunvard, 232 ; in Evaii Harring- 
ton, 233 ; in The Princess, 234. 

Malcolm, saved from capture, 190; 
made Prince of Cumberland, 199; 
aroused by the bell, 210; must suc- 
ceed Macbeth, 220; subordinates 
Macduff, 221 ; amended martially, 
223. 

Mamillius, praised for his mother's 
sake. III; used against Hermione, 
115; prefers his mother's company 
to toys, 118; his penetration, 119; 
his ghost stories, 119; instructed 
by his father in his mother's shames, 
126. 



412 



INDEX 



Man's selfishness and woman's sacri- 
fice, i8o. 

Marienlist palace, 300. 

Masters of the witches, 188, igi. 

Maximum consummation, 184, 193, 197, 
211, 212, 224, 229, 231, 233, 234, 235. 

Measure for Measure, 270. 

A'lerchant of Venice, 182, 263, 287, 
288, 326. 

Mercutio, nearest friend to Romeo, 
156; ridicules Romeo's devotion, 
163; not high-minded, 164; appro- 
priation and merging of, in Romeo, 
177. 

Meres, Francis, 265, 271. 

Merry Wives of Windsor, 249, 268. 

Midsununer Night's Dream, 287, 321. 

Minor Obstacle in Macbeth, 197; 
resolution of, 199, 205; in Cymbe- 
Une, 226 ; in The H inter's Tale, 
228; in Romeo and yuliet, 22<^; in 
Richard Carvel, 231 ; in Quentin 
Durward, 232; in Evan Harring- 
ton, 233 ; in The Princess, 234. 

Moral Plays, 287. 

Muck Ado, 268, 287, 320. 

Mysteries, the ancient, 240, 

Novel, constructed on Shakespeare's 
plan, 197, 230; Richard Carvel, 
231; Quentin Durward, z'^i; Evan 
Harrington, 232; Quo I'adis, 235. 

Nurse, Juliet's, 152, 153, 154, 160, 171, 
172, 177, 179. 

Othello, 182, 269, 289, 313. 

Palladis Tamia, 265, 271. 

Paris, 152, 15s, 157. 

Pauline, not found in Greene's novel, 
124; the need of such a character, 
124, 125 ; brings the babe before 
the king, 126; defies the king's 
guards, 127 ; pursues the king with 
invective, 133; relents, and begs 
the king's forgiveness, 134; keeps 
the queen in hiding, 137. 

Perdita, arrayed in palace finery, 
143; tested, as mistress of the festi- 
val, 144 ; makes her own social 
forms, 145 ; captivates Camillo, 
145 ; keeps aloof from the finery, 
146; tried by the anger of the King, 
147 ; subordinated to her mother, 
148 ; her precontract, 248. 



Pericles, Prince of Tyre, 270. 

Personal Plays, 287. 

Pisanio, patronised by the Queen, 17 ; 
a man of years, 21 ; perplexed by 
Imogen, 66; prepares Imogen to 
seek her husband, 68 ; enters ser- 
vice of Cloten, 71. 

Polyxenes, strange attachment of, to 
King of Sicily, in ; his rhetorical 
leave-taking, in; piqued by his 
friend, 112; considers himself per- 
suaded by Hermione to remain, 
113; his inconsistency, 116; in- 
sensible to the consequences of his 
flight, 118 ; in disguise at the sheep- 
shearing festival, 144; used as 
means of turning the plot, 146. 

Posthumus, relatively weak, 12; as- 
saulted by Cloten, 18 ; over-reached 
by lachimo, 26, 55; his unmanly 
vengeance, 61; his remorse, 92; 
strikes Imogen, 100; forgives lach- 
imo, 103. 

Precontract of marriage, 146, 247, 248. 

' Principalities,' use of, in Macbeth, 
186. 

Prolonged time, impressions of, in 
Romeo and jfuliet, 170. 

Puns in Romeo and yuliet, 168. 

Queen, pretends sympathy with 
Imogen, 10; brings Cymbeline to 
interrupt the lovers, 14; receives 
drugs from the court physician, 28 ; 
answers Lucius, 58 ; twits the king 
of slowness, 70 ; death reported by 
Cornelius, 96. 

Queen Elizabeth, 241, 260, 263, 268, 
269. 

Quentin Durward, 231. 

Quiney, Thomas, 275. 

Reading between the lines, 194. 
Reading Shakespeare,difficulties of, 4. 
Regan, 304, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310. 
Returne from Pernassus, '2!b(). 
Richard Carvel, 231. 
Richard II, 260, 262, 268. 
Richard III, 260, 262, 287. 
Richardson, John, 246. 
Robert of Gloucester's Chronicle, 312. 
Roman lieutenant, sets out to meet 

Lucius, 87. 
Romeo, in love with his ideals of love, 

151 ; falsely enamoured of Rosaline, 



INDEX 



413 



152 ; considerate of the servant, 152 ; 
discovers Juliet, 156; enters the 
garden of tlie Capuleis, 163; over- 
hears JuUet's soliloquy, 165; his 
romantic mind, 167 ; iniieriis Mer- 
cutio's gifts and brilliancy, 177. 

Romeo and Juliet, purpose of street 
frav in, 150; deeper meaning of 
178; superior to Cymbeline, 181 
maximum consummation in, 184 
brought out at The Curtain, 261 
printed, 262. 

Rosaline, 152, 162, 163. 

Kosalynde, of Thomas Lodge, 325. 

Ross, 193, 198, 219, 222. 

Ross and Angus, 197, 198. 

Sandells, Fulk, 246. 

Scourge of Simony, 268. 

Second Witch, as Norn of the 
Present, 196; prophecy of, con- 
firmed, 198. 

Sejanus, 255. 

Separation of acts of a play, 217. 

Sergeant, need of, 190; time of his 
coming from the field, 192. 

Shakespeare, Edmund, 239, 270. 

Shakespeare, Gilbert, 239. 

Shakespeare, Hainnet, 246, 261. 

Shakespeare, Joan, 239. 

Shakespeare, John, marriage of, 237; 
birthplace of, 238; removal of, to 
Stratford, 238 ; purchase of Henley 
Street house by, 239 ; pursued for 
debt, 244. 

Shakespeare, Judith, 246, 275, 280. 

Shakespeare, Richard, 239. 

Shakespeare's company, 254. 

Shakespeare's public, 2. 

Shakespeare, Susanna, 245, 270, 276, 
278. 

Shakespeare's women, 142, 174. 

Shakespeare, William, climaxes of, 
84; models of, 107; as a revealer, 
108 ; as artist, 109 ; of same ideals 
at twenty-eight as at forty-six, 175 ; 
unchanged in insight, 181; birth 
of, 236 ; first mention of, 236 ; 
mother of, 237; teachers of, 243; 
Latin, knowledge of, 243; mar- 
riage of, 245; Sir Thomas Lucy's 
persecution of, 249 ; removal to 
London, 250; attack upon, by 
Greene, 251 ; applies for coat 
armour, 261; buys New Place, 



261 ; Jonson's tribute to, 265 ; 
Mere's praise of, 265 ; buys tithes 
ot Strattord, 270 ; optimism of, 273 ; 
buys a house in Blacklnars, 274 ; 
returns to Stratford, 275 ; his will, 
275 ; inscription on tomb of, 277 ; 
saneness ot, 2S0; conviviality of, 
281 ; originality of, 286. 

Shallow, Justice, 249. 

Shottery, 240. 

Sidney, Sir Philip, 271, 281. 

Siward, the Elder, used to amend 
Malcolm, 223. 

Son?iets, Shakespeare's, 270 ; dark 
lady of, 272. 

Stratford bust, 277. 

Stratford upon Avon, 239. 

Subjective climax, in Shakespeare's 
plays, 136; in Macbeth, zi-j ; in 
Cymbeline, 230 ; in The \\ inter's 
Tale, 230 ; in Romeo and yuliet, 
230; in Richard Carvel, 231; in 
(Juentin Dierward, 232 ; in Evan 
Harrington, 233 ; in Tennyson's 
The Princess, 234. 

Taming of the Shrew, 283, 322. 
Theatre, the, 175, 250. 
The Princess, of Tennyson, 234. 
The Tempest, 274, 287. 
Third Act begins new action, 128, 

211. 
Third Murderer, 214. 
Third Witch, not summoned, 189; 

aids Macbeth, 191; as Norn of the 

Future, 197. 
Timber, Ben Jonson's, 285. 
Timon of Athens, 270. 
Titus Andronicus, 259, 287. 
Tragedy, first condition of, 184. 
Troilus and Cressida, 270, 289. 
Twelfth Night, 176, 182, 248, 268, 287, 

288, 323. 

Ultimate purpose of novels, 233 ; of 
Richard Carvel, 233; of Quentin 
Durward, 233 ; of Evan Harring- 
ton, 234. 

Use of the questions, 4, 330. 

Venus and Adonis, 257. 
Viola, 176, 287. 

Warwick, 241. 
What all men seek, 6. 



414 



INDEX 



What it is to be educated, 7. 

What Shakespeare can supply, 7. 

Winter's idle, opened hke Cym- 
behne, iii; subjective chmax in, 
230 ; plot of, not absurd, 140 ; maxi- 
mum consummation in, 184; may 
be considered a comedy, 228 ; date 
of, 274. 

Witches, use of, at once in Macbeth 



187; their storm, 187; their com- 
ing together, 188 ; different in 
knowledge, 188; their summons, 
188 ; return ol, 195 ; wind up their 
charm, 196; produce the air- 
drawn dagger, 206 ; raise an ap- 
parition of Banquo, 215 ; compro- 
mise Macbeth, 216. 
Wriothesley, Henry, 257, 259, 262. 



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